


Thomas and Jimmy After Christmas (part 1)

by EinahSirro



Series: Thomas and Jimmy After Christmas [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas has won Jimmy's friendship. Neither of them will be content with that. But how does one progress? Very carefully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the weeks following The Beating, as Jimmy mentally referred to it, the house was in severe disarray due to the death of Mr. Matthew. The family was in tatters, and the servants spoke in hushed voices of whether there was even a God in Heaven, unfair as this latest tragedy was. It was a grim period. But it was a fortunate occurrence, because no one took it amiss that Jimmy was sunk in a brown study most of the time. It seemed natural. The entire house was encased in gloom. Only Jimmy knew that his new-found contemplation had nothing to do with Mr. Matthew.

It had to do with that moment he walked into Thomas’s room and saw that battered face, and knew that this man had taken a beating meant for him. A man he’d abused and sneered at for a year. A man he’d tried to ruin. A man who still defended him, protected him, looked after him… and Jimmy’s nerve sank under the burden. He couldn’t really hold Thomas at arm’s length anymore, and the truth was, his desire to do so had abruptly vanished, buried under a ton of shame at his own behavior. 

There was another element to that weight on his shoulders: an element of wonder. Personally, Jimmy couldn’t imagine making a similar sacrifice for anyone. Yet there was a toughness about Thomas, under that carefully combed exterior, that made it no shock at all (once the surprise was over) that he could do such a thing. When he thought about it, Jimmy realized that stepping into the breach was no anomaly for Thomas. Hadn’t he joined the Medical Corps and thrust himself into the war before even being called up? That it was a pre-emptive strike, Jimmy did not know, but even if he had, so what. It was a wise one, one meant to stave off a worse fate. And clearly, the same impulse had been at work when he stepped forward to save Jimmy: a smaller sacrifice to protect a greater value. Jimmy looked into the mirror to see what greater value Thomas saw in him that was worth it, but he couldn’t see it. He saw only Jimmy Contra Monde… himself alone against the world. Except now it seemed he was not alone.

The effect on Jimmy was, at first, a sort of unprecedented, shocked humility that made him unable to keep up any sort of front with anyone, Thomas most of all. In the days that followed, Thomas kept to his room until the worst of his injuries faded, for even in those dark times, it was terribly distracting to the Crawleys to have an under-butler standing over the potatoes who looked as if he were a prize-fighter by day. They weren’t unsympathetic, indeed, they lauded his heroism. But they were still content to let him recuperate in peace and quiet, rather than stand bruised guard over their meals.

Jimmy found himself compulsively checking on Thomas throughout the day, to see if he needed food, water, help getting around, anything, anything at all… with an unselfconscious nervousness that only a moron could overlook. Not being a moron, Thomas scented the wind and grew as still as a python who sees a rabbit falling under its spell. The trick in these circumstances, he seemed to know, was simply not to frighten off your prey, to let it hop closer and closer in its befuddlement until the time was right.

Thomas would have been offended at such a comparison, of course, because in this case he fully intended that the rabbit should survive the attack and learn to enjoy being a meal again and again, perhaps forever, but the actions of hunter and prey are still consistent throughout Nature, whatever the ultimate outcome: Jimmy was stunned, and was cutting himself off from the herd with his newfound silence, his increasingly intrepid visits to Thomas’s room “just to check in.” No snake could have resisted. 

If Thomas was the snake, and Jimmy the rabbit, Carson was the owl up in the tree watching the developments with concern. It was clear that Thomas had transformed from a threatening shadow to a protective awning in one fell swoop, and Jimmy’s increasing willingness to linger under that shade worried the old butler. Had he been pressed to put his fears into spoken form, the word “seduce” would never have sullied his lips. But “influence”… now there was a word fit for any ears. Jimmy could fall under the influence of a man like Thomas. For Carson was fair enough to acknowledge that Thomas was a creature of some force and mystique. Even after 10 years, no one could say with any assurance that they knew him thoroughly. His capacity for vituperative action was very well known, as well as his ability to perform with grace, steadfastness, and even a certain empathy which was valuable in part for its discernment: Thomas responded to goodness, anyone who saw his reaction to Lady Sybil could see that. In some ways, he had the magnetic pull of true North: only the pure would turn toward him. One could not simply write off such a personality. The sinister drive mingled with the zealot’s regard for the holy could only produce a flavor both strong and distinct. No one could ignore Thomas. The question was not how to ignore, but how to resist. Jimmy, whose psyche was clearly fine but brittle, couldn’t be expected to hold out against him for long.

Despite his concerns, Carson was in no position to oversee very closely. The funeral services for Mr. Matthew, the visitors who came to pay their respects-- and lingered to observe the aftermath-- kept the household busy. Faces were long, but no one had enough spare time to get into mischief. When Thomas was recovered enough to join in the public displays, he had already conquered a certain amount of ground with Jimmy. A hand on the shoulder was no longer cause for tension, for Jimmy seemed to feel now that this hand had a right to land on him, and had a right to warm and press his neck. Like a yoked beast who had accepted the claim, Jimmy grew strangely passive around Thomas. In fact, both Mrs. Hughes and Carson could see the look of distant fatalism on Jimmy’s face when Thomas stepped up to him with some minor directive, usually accompanied by a touch on the shoulder, or the back. And Mrs. Hughes could see the gentleness of that touch, though of course Carson only saw the sword of Damocles tasting flesh. Nevertheless, Carson was too busy and distracted to do much more than direct warning glares toward Thomas, whose cold blue eyes slid away from them with the sort of sang-froid one would expect from a snake, even of the non-poisonous variety. 

As for Mrs. Hughes, though she was in the position to speak, and could probably have done so without causing much offense, she refrained. With a certain world-weary humor, she reminded herself that if nothing else, no one was going to get pregnant: a state of affairs she’d learned to value.

So thus it was, some two months after The Beating, and the demise of Mr. Matthew, that the household finally settled into the dreary weeks of recovery. The visitors were finally gone. The family was quiet, and no longer in shock. Meals and routines were re-established. And the new dynamic between Thomas and Jimmy was established as well: Thomas was a man somewhat redeemed, having reminded the entire staff of his stauncher side, even his humanity. Of course, the kitchen maids, finally alerted to the true nature of the thing, tended to giggle at the weakness his heart had admitted to. Being girls, however, they were still sensitive to the romance of the situation: a sacrifice! A selfless action on behalf of one beloved… it amused, but it also touched. 

Alfred was surprisingly calm amid the new scent in the air. He disapproved, of course. Vehemently. But this new awareness on the part of the entire staff left him the sole contender on the fields of masculinity. Thomas loved Jimmy, Jimmy was affected by that love, and Alfred could sense their removal from the plains where stags hunted. This was compensatory indeed. He decided, unconsciously, to refrain from protest for now. Really, it was none of his business. Besides, it was rather pleasant to watch the process of Jimmy’s disintegration as a rival.

Jimmy’s part in this new dynamic was somewhat less positive than Thomas’s. That Thomas could love at all lifted him in the eyes of others, for when one is as cruel as Thomas could be, there is nowhere to go but up. But Jimmy had glided, up till now, on the surface of things with his own brand of shallow grace. Until now he had been handsome Jimmy, who could play piano, dance, banter, and deflect personal questions with his thin but steady charm. Now, however, that veneer flaked away to reveal a young man vacillating between nameless unease and a curious aura of defeat. 

To be in love, it has been said, is to recognize your doom and accept it with calm. Thomas had achieved the calm, having been born doomed. But Jimmy was still grappling with that sudden recognition of his destiny, and the moments of calm were only in evidence when Thomas was near him, looking at him, laying that hand of fate upon him. At such times Jimmy sank under that blue gaze, and stared back with the blankness of acknowledged prey. Alone, however, he developed several nervous tics, and his fingers drummed the table at quiet moments, only to suddenly freeze as he sank into morbid contemplation of Thomas’s ashtray.

By day, they moved as if underwater, the household of Downton. The family in sorrow, the staff respectfully, even sincerely, glum. Mr Matthew had been rather an adopted mascot for them all, ultimately, and they had prided themselves on their ability to see his worth. Now he was gone, and no one was glad. But the trance-like atmosphere was strongest wherever Thomas and Jimmy crossed paths. Thomas made certain they crossed often. Jimmy put up no resistance whatsoever. So it was that they were increasingly alone together for several moments each day in a state of breathless suspension. Thomas reveled in the moments when he entered the silver pantry to find Jimmy alone, and saw the lack of defensiveness in Jimmy’s glance when he closed the door behind them. Drawn by the aura of helpless compliance about Jimmy, Thomas edged closer, and ever closer in these weeks, to comment upon the state of the silver, or the changes to the menu, or to undertake the occasional cursory inspection of Jimmy’s person. When some minor repair of Jimmy’s attire needed his personal touch, a button or hem or bit of lint, Thomas moved in very close and attended it with a soothing murmur, and Jimmy fell into a stillness rather like a mild swoon, and gazed off limpidly in such a manner as to make them both suddenly taste something in the air, and look at one another watchfully, as if to say, did you taste that too?

Thomas, of course, was far more aware of the process unfolding than Jimmy was. Thomas had seen it before, in various forms, although he’d never been so personally invested. But he knew, as many of his kind did, that coming to terms with an unexpected and forbidden passion was an unnerving process. It grew like a tumor in the mind, pressing against the normal functions until they finally noticed the pressure, and began to flutter and agitate, and ask what was happening. 

Jimmy was much more in the dark. He was of course aware that something was awake and rolling over inside of him, and it was certainly connected with his own surprising and alarming lack of revulsion at the thought of Thomas, white-skinned, cold-eyed Thomas, with his diamond-shaped face and diamond-shaped hands that should have been cold but were surprisingly warm, and his voice that should have been smooth and hissing but was bracingly rough and common… it was rather like discovering that one liked the Devil better than God. It wasn’t good news. But it was there, and had apparently been there for quite some time. Yes, whether you understood the process or not, it was unnerving. And Jimmy was thoroughly unnerved.

If the days were unnerving, the nights were hair-raising. Thomas was a tame devil by day, buttoned up and attentive to his duty--for no passion would ever render him free of personal ambition. But when darkness fell, the kitchen was quiet and still, the last of the family had drifted up from the sitting room, and the staff was disappearing one-by-one from the servants’ hall, this was the poor man’s witching hour. This was a time for those who wished to risk the stigma of being alone together, even if only alone at the end of the table, or alone in the corner near the piano. This was the time that Thomas would coil up and with deliberation light a cigarette, blowing up the smoke like a signal, and Jimmy increasingly drifted over to him like a fogbank to a lighthouse.

One night, Thomas produced a deck of cards from his pocket and challenged Jimmy to a game of War. Now War is a peculiarly mindless game, each side puts down a card, highest card wins, the winner takes them both, and it goes on and on until one side has completely denuded the other of cards, and holds the whole pack in his hands. There is no strategy, no gamesmanship, no skill involved. There is only the willingness to confront again and again, to ignore the losses and pounce on the winnings, and add to your arsenal while depleting your adversary’s over and over until you have finally completely demolished them. In short, the perfect metaphor for love. Jimmy melted into the seat across from Thomas, and they played a round, betting small change. Jimmy won, and collected his coins smilingly. Thomas watched with intent but veiled eyes, and then casually offered to accompany him upstairs. 

Outside Jimmy’s door, Thomas turned and said confidentially,  
“If you want to play again tomorrow night, I’ve got a bit of something in my room. To drink, I mean. I don’t have enough to go around, so—“ he shrugged slightly, “best just the two of us. Unless you’re scared of losing.”

The jibe was unnecessary, for Jimmy was quite willing to play cards alone with Thomas on the next night, and said so directly. Thomas gave him that characteristic glance, one that seemed to touch Jimmy’s face, drop to some distant spot near his elbow, and then slide away with a tip of the head that might mean “Indeed,” or “well-played,” or “we’ll see.” Then he said good night with his usual precise impassivity, and moved to his own door on silent feet. They both entered their rooms aglow with expectation… Thomas’s glow one of reddish intent, Jimmy’s of golden alarm, and spent a mostly sleepless night less than 10 paces apart, and fully aware of it.

The next day, they were both rather high-strung with anticipation, and had to take pains to hide it, and look suitably glum at breakfast as Anna commented on how many more months it would be before Lady Mary could wear a touch of purple, or perhaps dark blue. Jimmy had developed the habit of keeping his head turned in Thomas’s direction, completely unknowingly, and so was the more obvious of the two. Thomas’s nerves of steel served him better, and he had mastered the fine art of appearing to stare at his plate while really, his entire attention was directed toward every movement in the upper right hand corner of his field of vision. It was a day in which they both felt aware of every second passing.

When evening came, Jimmy came to Thomas’s room in his undershirt and slacks, rather unsure of exactly the correct attire for this sort of date, and was relieved to find Thomas in a similar half-molted state. They pulled up the chairs to the small table, Thomas produced a bottle of some amber, burning fluid, poured them each a drink into the two tumblers that he had borrowed-not-stolen from downstairs, and they settled in.

Thomas shuffled. “What’re we betting?”  
Jimmy considered. “Same as last night?”  
Thomas gave him a glance. “I’m not so eager as you to go broke. Wot about something else. Not money.”

Jimmy almost laughed. That hadn’t taken long at all. But he played dumb. “What, then?”  
Thomas finally smiled, the kind of warm, engaging smile few people got to see. “How about a kiss. Jus’ one.” He said it lightly, as if to imply that it was really a trifle, and nothing to fear.

It seemed appropriate to at least pretend reluctance, so Jimmy looked away for a moment and tried to access the dismay that must surely be in his heart. He couldn’t find any, only a ticking silence that neither confirmed nor denied. He looked back and assessed Thomas. What could he ask that would equal a kiss? He considered for a moment, and then his eyes lit on the glove. “I want to see what’s under that glove.”

Thomas’s smile faded a bit. He’d only ever shown one person his deformity, and had learned to regret, now that the war was over, that he had sacrificed one of his beauties, his rather elegant hands. He wasn’t eager to show Jimmy the gnarled remains. Jimmy stared him down, tipping his head back a bit, and the lamplight fell on those lips. “Right,” Thomas said shortly, and dealt.

War can be played in absolute silence. Rapidly. The hands move, and the eyes flick back and forth. They drank between each round. Jimmy could see Thomas clenching his teeth as his share of the cards dwindled. In a short time, it was over. Jimmy tipped back in the chair, pleased with himself, and Thomas glowered. Then he removed the glove, and Jimmy lost his smug look for a moment. “My God,” he said, his chair coming back down with a thump. Without a thought, he reached across and took the damaged hand in both of his own, pulling it toward him and cradling it in his like a wounded bird. It occurred to Thomas that one can lose a battle and still win the war. He let Jimmy hold the hand and explore it with horrified awe for several silent moments. 

“Did it break the bones?” He asked, clearly distressed.  
“A few,” Thomas said, gauging Jimmy’s reactions carefully. “Fine now, except when it rains.”  
Jimmy looked conscious. “It always rains.”  
Thomas let a modest smirk escape. “Well.”

They sat like that for a moment more, and Jimmy regarded the hand he was holding, his own fingers moving slowly over it. He seemed in danger of falling into another of his brown studies, and Thomas hoped he would, for every moment they touched he considered it as another moment that his card took one of Jimmy’s, growing a stockpile of intimate moments between them on his side, to counter the arsenal of resistance he was sure still existed on Jimmy’s. But he knew instinctively that Jimmy’s share had shrunk since The Beating. He just didn’t know exactly how much.

Finally Jimmy inhaled, as if he had forgotten to breathe for a minute, and his eyes came back into focus. He gave back the glove. “You want to play another round?”

Thomas’s eyes took on a glow. That was unexpected; he’d thought Jimmy would retreat to enjoy another night of safety before the inevitable moment that Thomas would claim the kiss they both knew was coming. He let Jimmy shuffle.  
“Wot’s yer bet this time? Mine is still… well.”  
This time Jimmy was ready. “I want your cigarettes.”  
Thomas actually paled. “That’s my last pack.”  
“I know. You said you had to make them last till Sunday. They’ll last alright, if I’ve got them.” 

Thomas actually hesitated. His cigarettes were sacred. Jimmy leaned forward, his natural cockiness finally resurfacing for the first time in two months. He glanced over his shoulder to the closed door and then spoke in a lowered voice. “How long a kiss are we talking about?” He asked with hint of challenge. Thomas forgot the cigarettes entirely. He rose and went to his dresser, and returned with a small hourglass.

“Egg-timer,” he explained. “Two minutes.” He set it down with a thump on the right side of the table. Jimmy leaned back and regarded it, his moment of daring drowning immediately in a sea of consternation. Two minutes is a long time to let another man work his mouth over yours. Clearly he wasn’t talking about a little peck on the lips. This was going to be… the full procedure, he thought. 

Thomas narrowed his eyes and turned the egg-timer over deliberately, so that Jimmy could watch the sand fall for a few long moments. Watching the younger man’s face as he imagined Thomas kissing him for all those long, long seconds was fairly satisfying in itself. Jimmy seemed to forget how to breathe again as he stared at the tiny hourglass. They sat frozen for two full minutes, Jimmy staring nervously at the sand, Thomas staring contentedly at Jimmy. When it was over, they both rather felt as if the kiss had been accomplished. Jimmy breathed again. Thomas took the pack of smokes from the tiny end table behind him and set them down on the left side of the table, and Jimmy began dealing out the cards between the two items. He looked like a man who sees a noose outside the window, but he kept dealing.

From outside the Abbey, any passing watchers could see the lights in the windows going out one by one until at last, the tiny light in the far attic room went out, and they would have known that the card game was over, at least for tonight.

As Jimmy exited Thomas’s room, he encountered Mr. Carson, just coming up from a late night at the balance books. Carson’s eyes flitted from Jimmy to the closed door and back.  
“What is going on with you and Mr. Barrow?” He asked bluntly.  
Jimmy held up the deck of cards. “But we’re not playing for money,” he said.  
Carson actually looked more disturbed rather than less. “What are you playing for?” he asked, with the air of a man who is not sure he wants to know the answer to his question.  
Triumphantly, Jimmy held up the pack of cigarettes. Carson relaxed and gave him his most disapproving eye-roll, and then sighed himself off to bed. Humming to himself, Jimmy went to his room.

The next morning, Thomas was uncommonly waspish with the kitchen maids. By the time breakfast was cleared from upstairs, Thomas was lingering around the backdoor longingly, and when Jimmy passed through, he accosted him; but humbly.  
“Won’t you… I just… be a friend, Jimmy, and let me have one cigarette,” he said.  
Jimmy put on a serious face. “I don’t know, now… I don’t know if I should, you know. That wasn’t part of the bet.” He could barely keep from grinning.  
“No, the bet was that you have them, and you do, you have them. You never said I wasn’t to smoke, now, did you?” Thomas put a placating hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and moved it caressingly down his arm. Alfred cut through the hallway, giving them a sideways glance, and Thomas dropped his hand with a frustrated grimace. Jimmy finally let his smile shine through.  
“Alright, then, come on.” He led the way out back, Thomas following, tensely tugging down at his vest. 

Outside, Jimmy removed the pack of cigarettes from his pockets and pulled one out. Thomas reached for it but Jimmy pulled it back.  
“Ah-ah,” he said and slowly put it to Thomas’s lips himself. Thomas accepted the gesture with a slow smile, and his shoulders relaxed. At that moment, he was happier than he’d been in years. Jimmy chuckled, watching him light up and take that first long drag with a sigh of relief. They lingered a few moments after the cigarette was finished, watching the smoke drift up as if they were afraid to look at each other, but could settle for looking at something together.

By the end of the day, Thomas had rather learned to enjoy begging Jimmy for a cigarette. The whole process was delicious, for Jimmy was a tease at heart, and played his part thoroughly. In fact, Thomas ended up smoking somewhat more than he would have otherwise, but neither of them commented on it.

That night, they sat down to the table like two combatants who knew each other’s weaknesses now, and were equally determined to prevail upon them, and stretch this tantalizing game out until it moaned. Thomas set the hourglass down meaningfully and shuffled the cards.  
“What are you betting for?” He asked.  
Jimmy smirked like a man who has his enemy’s measure now. “Your hair pomade.”  
Thomas stopped cold. “Aw. Don’t be like that.”

Jimmy’s grin grew to beautiful proportions, and Thomas admired it for a moment, and loved it, but … “Jimmy, you don’t know wot my hair looks like without it. I have this… it stands up here and it lays down there and it stands up again over here and I look like a chicken’s been clawing at my head. Water don’t hold it down, Jimmy. Nothing holds it down.” He was actually pleading now. “I’ll look… not fit to wait table.”

Jimmy picked up the egg-timer and turned it so the sand started flowing. Then he just held it close to his face and gazed at Thomas, who could sit and stare at the timer and Jimmy’s lips at the same time.  
After a long moment, Jimmy said, “You’ll never win,” and curved those lips into a little smile.  
Thomas grabbed the pomade, slapped it down on the table, and dealt the cards with murder in his eye. Well, not murder. But something rather close.

The next morning, the Dowager Countess joined the family for breakfast, having received a letter from a dear friend with an unmarried son that she felt Lady Edith should know about. As she swept into the hall she greeted Mr. Barrow falteringly.  
“My goodness,” she said, gazing at his hair. “Is that the newest style…” she added dubiously, and then sailed past without waiting for an answer. 

It was a long day for a vain man, and by the end of it, Thomas had taken on the grim, enduring demeanor of a wet cat in a cage who knows that every passer-by is going to throw another bucket on him. Even Lord Grantham had not been able to control a slight double-take upon seeing his hair, and everyone all day seemed to be addressing Thomas’s forehead. It was very distracting. And of course, he refused to explain, settling his face into a cold and forbidding mask that effectively shut off communication. The denizens of Downton settled for staring at his hair, looking to each other expressively, and maintaining an awkward silence more painful than questions.

Thomas gazed upon Jimmy much less dotingly that evening. They sat down to War with faces more matched to the game than ever before.  
“I tell you what,” Jimmy began, before Thomas could even speak. He put the cigarettes and the pomade with the hourglass. “If you win, you get it all back. You get your kiss. You get everything.”

Thomas stopped shuffling and regarded Jimmy intently.  
“But if I win, we arm wrestle. And you have to accept whatever bet I place on it,” Jimmy finished. He looked quite serious. Thomas glanced at Jimmy’s arms speculatively, and then thought of his own considerable fitness (and his burning determination, which bolstered strength far more than it helped a card game.) He nodded wordlessly, and dealt.

They played deftly, quickly, as if they both just wanted it over with. It was not a light-hearted game anymore. Thomas lost, and sat back with a stunned air.  
“Yer cheating!” He finally stated. “It’s impossible, no one wins five games in a row, yer cheatin’ somehow!” He glared at Jimmy, who regarded him somberly.  
“You can’t really cheat at War,” Jimmy pointed out. 

Thomas gathered up the cards angrily and put them aside. Jimmy positioned his elbow on the table in a clear invitation to move straight to the arm-wrestling. Thomas remained unmoved for a moment.  
“So here’s the bet,” Jimmy said quietly. “If you win, you win it all. Including your kiss. Whatever you say… But if you lose… you can never ask again. Never.”

Thomas stared at him, suddenly feeling as though this long game had somehow been deliberately engineered by Jimmy to come down to this moment, when his apparent flirtation would be stripped away to reveal a hard and loveless will that had never budged an inch, not really. Thomas felt sick.

Then a wave of red rose up to his face, and he determined that he’d win even if he had to break Jimmy’s arm. He positioned himself wordlessly, they locked their fists together, and Jimmy said “On three. One. Two. Three.”

Thomas slammed Jimmy’s arm to the table so fast, he was startled himself. It was over in a split second. It took his brain a moment to register that Jimmy hadn’t put up the slightest resistance. He looked up to see Jimmy smiling at him, a warm smile directly into his eyes unlike any he’d really seen before.

“Wha’ are you doin?” He breathed, truly lost.  
“I got tired of waiting for you to win at cards.” Jimmy said. He got up, took a deep breath, and walked to the door. Then he turned facing Thomas and leaned against it, so that if anyone tried to open it, his body formed at least a momentary barrier to serve as warning. His arms hung limp at his sides, but his palms opened and turned outward. “Well?” he whispered.

Understanding finally dawned on Thomas, and he rose and came to Jimmy, reaching up to touch his face with both hands, and he had to notice that both he and Jimmy were trembling slightly. They put their foreheads together for a moment, and then Thomas leaned in for his kiss.

They never could say how long that first one lasted. They forgot the egg timer.


	2. Getting Smutty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy discovers that kissing Thomas is not so unpleasant after all. From there, there's nowhere to go but down, if you know what I mean.

They never could say how long that first kiss lasted. They forgot the egg timer. They stood in the silent room, the lamplight casting its glow on the floor, leaving shadows in all the corners, and Thomas held Jimmy’s face in his hands ever so carefully, like a monk holds his only bowl.

Jimmy, back against the door, felt those lips touch his, and his mind was utterly blank. His head was tilted up, for Thomas was somewhat taller than him, and Jimmy experienced the natural male unease about being out-sized. There was no doubt who was the more powerful of the two of them. No doubt who was really going to be in control, ultimately, once Jimmy’s teasing had run its course. All Jimmy had, in the end, was veto power. All the drive, the force, the heat… came from Thomas.

And Jimmy felt that force, controlled though it was, as he stood in the semi-darkness, hearing only his own breath, and that of Thomas, and feeling those warm lips moving gently on his. He kept his eyes closed at first, feeling the lips, and the kiss, and recognizing that it wasn’t so different, really, from other kisses he’d stolen in his life. Except he wasn’t the one stealing now.

The seconds ticked by, and Jimmy’s hands crept up to grasp Thomas at the waist—for balance, he told himself. Thomas took this as a signal to move in a little closer. Reciprocally, Jimmy pressed toward Thomas, kissing back harder, and the act marked a turn in his own perceptions of this moment. Suddenly he didn’t feel as though he were backed against a door. He felt as though he was leaning over the edge of a cliff, and some heroic figure was holding him up, and keeping him from falling. Jimmy raised up on his toes, so vivid was this edge-of-the-cliff feeling. He pressed harder.

A sharp knock at the door caused them both to leave off with gasps, like two people coming up from under water, and breaking the surface together. They released each other and Jimmy staggered away, wide-eyed. Thomas barked, “Wot?!” at the door.

Alfred’s voice came, “Is Jimmy in there?”

They both froze.

“—only can I borrow some shoe polish.” Alfred finished.

Jimmy moved to the table and gathered up the cards with shaking hands. He called out “Oh alright, just hold on,” and made to leave the room.

“Don’t go, come back after—“ Thomas whispered, but Jimmy gave him a spooked look and muttered,

“No, best just—“ he gestured helplessly toward the door, the hall, the outside world, Alfred, Carson, all those people in their lives. His eyes were nearly black with emotion. Then he jerked open the door and stepped into the hallway with as much nonchalance as he could. “Ought to buy your own bleedin’ shoe polish,” Thomas heard him say as Jimmy and Alfred moved away from his door. Calf-like, Alfred lowed something in response, and their voices faded.

The door closed and Thomas stood alone in the room, aroused, frustrated, but over all… jubilant. I’ll have you, he thought, his blue eyes burning right through the door and following Jimmy down the hall and into his room. I’ll have you if it kills me, he promised silently. Then he turned slowly and made for his bed. His thought processes had no more words, only images. They formed a dark, moon-shadowed dreamscape with a long path through a deep forest that led to a heavy wooden door, and beyond that door, in a dark and private room, Jimmy lay on a bed, his body limp, his arms wide, eyes half closed, and there was no resistance, no hesitation, no remorse, and nothing would be denied.

Jimmy, after Alfred left, lay awake in his bed as well. His heart had begun to align to Thomas’s--why deny it--and his body was energetically notifying him that Something Has Changed. But yet, two minds were never so different. Jimmy lay that night and looked back upon his life, all his memories bathed in bright sunlight, a series of images, one tableau after another, all leading to … this. He studied his own path. How had his trajectory led him here, to Downton Abbey, and this strange, compelling, vaguely sinister person…? How had this happened?

And so they lay that night, each in his own narrow cot, each with a dark blue square of night sky to stare out at. For Jimmy, tonight’s kiss lay at the end of a long day’s travel that had somehow brought him here, and now the sun had set, leaving him blind in the darkness. For Thomas, ten paces away, the moon had finally risen, finally, finally after all this time, and it marked the beginning of a night-time journey, beautiful but mysterious, and somewhat dangerous, and he only anticipated when and how they would arrive at their secret destination.

***

In the morning, Jimmy moved about with a buzzing in his head. He had to pass Thomas in the hallway as the four of them, Alfred and Mr. Carson included, made their way to and from the lavatory at the end of the hall, and made themselves ready for breakfast. Jimmy did not avoid Thomas’s questioning glance. He even found himself lifting his face like a sunflower to that one bright light for just a moment, before dropping his head again and grasping his towel absently.

That one brief but open-hearted glance meant the world to Thomas, who had been the seducer (might as well confess) a few times before, and knew that the seduced were usually rather resentful. He was elated to see no resentment yet, and dove into his room to dress for breakfast.

They both braced themselves for the day, bolstered their courage, and dressed before their mirrors like matadors going into the arena. Each thought the other was the bull. It’s funny how humans are when they are in love, and uncertain.

To the chagrin and confusion of Thomas, however, the next 48 hours did NOT involve him gradually moving in deeper and deeper upon Jimmy’s person. For the next two days, Jimmy avoided moments alone with him stringently. It was not to say Jimmy avoided him, or ignored him: he did neither. In fact, he spoke to him more often than ever, in a friendly manner, and asked his advice and opinions on all sort of issues pertaining to spoons, and precedent on the continent as opposed to in England, and the exact definition of transubstantiation, but always before others. Catching Jimmy alone became rather like trying to catch a greased piglet. Fun, but maddening. No, Thomas amended, just maddening. He began to wonder in dismay if that kiss had been too much for Jimmy. Don’t see how, he brooded. Didn’t even use any tongue.

Two nights in a row, Thomas hovered unhappily in the servants’ hall only to watch Jimmy challenge Alfred to an endless game of cards, playing for rather high stakes. Daisy and Ivy lingered to watch; Daisy with disapproval, Ivy with admiration, as Jimmy divested Alfred of half his week’s pay.

Quite the little cardshark you are, thought Thomas, smoking moodily at the opposite end of the table, pretending to read a book. It could have been upside-down for all he’d noticed.

Finally, at the end of the second night, Alfred sat back. “I can’t go on. You’ve fleeced me, Jimmy Kent.” He was good humored about it, but made it plain that he was finished. “If you want someone else to cheat, you’ll have to find someone with more money.” He stood as if to leave.

Jimmy shuffled the cards calmly, and looked over at Thomas. “Well, Mr. Barrow. What do you think?”

Thomas gladly closed his book. “Might be able to afford a game,” he admitted, his heart singing. Alfred snorted and moved toward the door, “Be careful, Mr. Barrow. He’ll take you for everything.”

He already has, thought Thomas, smirking politely at Alfred and the girls as they left. Then he tipped his chin deliberately toward Jimmy.

“I thought it was you who couldn’t afford to play anymore, “ he commented, snuffing out his cigarette and rising to his feet. Jimmy rose also.

“I had to gather up some funds before I faced you again,” Jimmy admitted in a hushed voice. “But I think I’m ready now. Shall we?” He glanced toward the stairs, and Thomas, his whole inner being swelling with apocryphal hymns, turned as calmly as he could and accompanied Jimmy up the stairs to his room.

Jimmy peeled off for a moment at his own door, “Just get more comfortable. Be along in a minute,” he said.

Thomas went to his room with deliberate and measured tread, only to burst into activity as soon as his door was closed, stripping down, climbing into his freshest pajamas, wiping his face and rinsing his teeth in a rush. He smoothed down the gleaming black helmet of hair in the mirror, checked his breath, and straightened quickly at the light tap at the door.

To his rapture, Jimmy was in his pajamas too. That was surely a sign. He had the cards in one hand, and the other hand was… behind his back. Hm. Thomas poured them each a drink and they sat down at their table, facing each other once again in the lamplight. Thomas was in heaven.

Jimmy shuffled the cards. “What do you wager?” he asked.

I’ll take it slow, thought Thomas, and said “Just another kiss.” He smiled in a genial manner. Let him see how harmless I am, was his mood. A python, feeling generous.

Jimmy took something from his lap and placed it on the table. It was a coil of rope.

Rope. Yes, actually. Rope. Like from the stables.

Thomas stared at it for a long moment, while several parts of his brain sputtered and went out like candles. “Wha’s tha??” He finally uttered, his mouth open. Every last trace of patronizing smirk was gone from his face. Jimmy, for his part, was inscrutable.

“If I win, I’m going to tie you up, and you stay that way all night. I’ll untie you in the morning.” He said, with the sort of aplomb Thomas had no idea Jimmy could muster. Thomas was aghast. He stared at the rope. And I was going to take it slow, he thought.

“Whuh—“ was all he could muster.

Jimmy smiled and kept shuffling, his eyes on Thomas. There was a long silence. Thomas downed his drink and then rose to pour some more. Finally he sat down again and stared at Jimmy, thinking “and they say *I* am twisted.”

“What if there’s a fire?” Was all he could think of.

Jimmy’s smile faded. “I’ll have to stay with you, then, in case there’s a fire.”

Thomas was still flummoxed. “Wha’ if I have to go to the loo?”

“Don’t drink too much,” Jimmy advised seriously.

Thomas stared.

Jimmy dealt.

Thomas accepted his hand and they began to play. Unlike previous games, this one moved slowly. Thomas was actually stunned the entire time. I’m the hunter, he thought. You’re the prey. Prey is not supposed have rope.

When his cards began to dwindle, Thomas moved even more slowly. He simply did not believe this development. He kept looking up at Jimmy to see if there might be some crack in the façade to indicate that really, this was not the direction the evening was headed. Really, Jimmy was only kidding. Really, Jimmy was not nearly so imaginative and intrepid as to put forward such an idea. Really, Jimmy did not have 47 out of 52 cards already.

“He’s got to be cheating somehow,” Thomas thought dimly, as he played a desperate round with his five remaining cards. He rallied briefly, and rose to 9 cards, before Jimmy swept him utterly and left him cardless and horrified, staring at a coil of rope on a table in the attics of Downton Abbey, at nearly midnight on an evening in early March.

It was a Tuesday.

Thomas watched in absolute dread as Jimmy stacked the cards neatly and picked up the rope. The coil was actually four separate lengths all wound together, a fact that added to Thomas’s roiling trepidation. Going for the ankles too, the little devil, he thought in a haze.

“D’ye have to go to the toilet?” Jimmy asked rather gently, like a jailor asking if you’d like one last meal. Thomas moved past him in a daze, “Yes. Be a moment.”

When he returned, Jimmy had turned his bed down and had secured a piece of rope to each corner of the bedstead. Thomas stood in the middle of the room, mouth slack with amazement.

Not in a year’s worth of fevered imagination had he ever imagined Jimmy Kent would tie him to a bed. He’d tied Jimmy down about 35 times, mentally, but good Lord, this… well, this had simply not been on the menu. Jimmy straightened and stood waiting, in rather a jaunty pose, actually. 

Thomas passed him and sat down on the bed for a moment, trying to think of something he could say to re-form the shape of this evening, but he couldn’t. His insides had all settled down somewhere in his pelvis, and his brain was full of fog. Finally he said,

“I hope you have some compassion for me, Jimmy,” and lay back on the bed.

Jimmy sat down, took Thomas’s right hand, and raised it to the corner of the bed. “I do,” he whispered after a moment. “I have more than you think.” 

Then he tied Thomas up at all four corners with knots so immovable that no one looking would have rated compassion high on Jimmy Kent’s list of attributes.

The moon shone down on the black outlines of Downton Abbey, whose turrets stretched their gothic points up in spears toward the starry sky. The night was still and cold. The family turned in their beds, this way and that, as the clock ticked through midnight, and the fires in their grates burned down to the coals.

But in one dark attic room, a man lay stretched on a rack of blissful torture. By midnight Thomas realized that Jimmy was, at some level, far along on the journey toward that private room behind the wooden door. But at another level, the younger man was terrified. He was terrified of Thomas. He wanted him, but he didn’t trust him.

Having Thomas trussed up in this manner eased Jimmy’s fears for the following hours, and allowed him some safe space to work through his own inner, tangled forest. Helpless, Thomas lay in his bed, wrists and ankles pinned, and watched his body be used for Jimmy’s gradually emboldened experiments in the realm of human intimacy.

After securing Thomas, Jimmy moved quietly to the door and, in careful tugs, pulled Thomas’s chest of drawers across the floor until it blocked the door. Thomas was actually rather relieved, having spent the last five minutes haunted by the image of someone, say the former chauffeur, Branson, opening the door and saying “I wondered if you could just… oh… excuse me…” Mortifying image.

Jimmy returned to the bed, the moonlight casting a pale light upon him, and Thomas lay looking up at him, relatively relaxed – for surely Jimmy wouldn’t hurt him-- but certainly alert. Jimmy sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Can’t really leave you alone like this, can I?” Jimmy asked, and then reached out to run his fingers over Thomas’s face. Leaning forward, he studied the visage below him closely.

“You still have a scar on your lip from where they hit you,” Jimmy breathed, his fingers going to that place and stroking gently. Thomas felt as though his heart had swollen up and up until it filled him from throat to groin. His eyes were fastened on Jimmy’s hooded ones. He couldn’t think of anything to say. It occurred to him that he might as well keep silent. If his body couldn’t move, and that allowed Jimmy to move more freely, he might consider keeping his voice still, so Jimmy would talk more openly.

It’s a strange thing for the one who is tied up to be still, in some sense, guiding the evening’s events. But it is sometimes the case.

“And on your cheek. There’s a mark here,” Jimmy said, his voice barely audible. He let his hands run over Thomas’s face freely for a few moments, over the broad cheekbones, the delicate bridge of his nose, the wide mouth, and then down into the full, strong throat, squeezing it briefly, making the blood rush to Thomas’s head, and then into the sensitive white skin at the collarbone.

Thomas lay dizzy with wild happiness, and said nothing, only closing his eyes when looking at Jimmy was too much, and opening them again quickly, because darkness was even worse.

Jimmy stroked Thomas’s face and throat for a few moments more, and then suddenly seemed to feel that his pajama top was too warm, and he took it off. Hovering bare-shouldered over his victim, he continued his exploration. Thomas lay in dazed bliss, watching the white moonlight reflect off of Jimmy’s pale shoulders as his own shirt was unbuttoned slowly and spread wide apart. He could feel Jimmy’s fingers moving across his chest, exploring the light dusting of fur, finding his nipples and drawing circles around them.

I am rock hard and if I weren’t lying down, I’d faint, thought Thomas, biting his lips and forcing himself to stay still and quiet.

“I’ve never touched another man before,” Jimmy murmured aloud, his eyes intent, yet distant, and Thomas could tell he was talking more to himself. I’ll be quiet as long as I can bear it, Thomas vowed mentally, inhaling sharply as Jimmy dropped his head down and pressed his mouth to an exposed nipple. He could feel Jimmy’s lips closing around it, the tongue exploring. Then he started sucking gently, and Thomas had to close his fingers around the iron bars at the top of the bed in order to keep control of himself.

He lay panting under Jimmy’s exploring mouth and hands as they moved across his chest, favoring each nipple in turn, and then down over his belly, until they reached his hips, and then he convulsed, and croaked, “Oh God, you’ve got to untie me.”

Jimmy ignored him, burying his face in the smooth divets of Thomas’s hips. “You smell nice,” he whispered from his burrow.

“Please, Jimmy, I don’t know if I can keep quiet!” Thomas whispered in agony.

Jimmy sat up and regarded Thomas coolly. “I’d better stop then,” he said.

Thomas nearly screamed. “No! No, don’t stop, just let me go. Oh let me go, Jimmy, I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything you want if you let me go.”

Jimmy lay down on top of him, put his face in Thomas’s hot neck, and slid his leg high up in between his captive’s spread thighs.  
“We’ll just go to sleep then,” Jimmy whispered, pressing his thigh against the throbbing heat in Thomas’s pajamas.

“Oh God,” breathed Thomas. “You’re a monster, Jimmy Kent. You’re a black-hearted, villainous, evil monster.”

Jimmy’s hand slid down between Thomas’s thighs and began to caress him directly, up and down, rhythmically. “Am I?”

Thomas gripped the bed frame and lay panting, his knees turning outward to allow Jimmy greater access to his warmest and most sensitive places. He bit his lip hard, trying desperately to keep quiet.

Jimmy caressed him over the thin cloth of his nightclothes for several minutes more, while Thomas writhed joyously under the moving fingers. Then Jimmy slipped the waistband down and lowered his face to where Thomas wanted it most.

“You love me?” Jimmy asked, before taking the straining pink head in his mouth and playing with it.

“I do!” Thomas gasped, losing all self-control as Jimmy took him deeper in. “I do, I do , God I love you, Jimmy—God—“ and he whispered feverish ramblings long into the night as his would-be prey played with his flesh, confusing Jimmy with God, and love with death, and finally dying of love himself, deep in Jimmy’s throat, his head thrown back, ropes chafing his wrists and ankles, heels digging into the bed, and his guts full of bursting sunlight.

Thomas woke in the morning to find his right wrist untied, Jimmy gone, and the dresser set at an angle to let a villain slide out unknowing in the early morning. He slowly worked his left wrist free and sat up, his hands pressed to his stomach.

Alright, he thought, I'm your slave, Jimmy Kent. But you’re going to be mine too. I just don’t quite know how to turn the tables back where they should be.

Then he slowly, rather stiffly, untied his ankles, and got up to face the day. Life is good, he mused as he looked into the mirror. Really, though, over all. Life is good.


	3. Figuring Jimmy Out

Life is good, Thomas mused as he looked into the mirror that morning. Really, over all. Life is good. He made ready for breakfast, brushed the lint off his uniform, smoothed down his hair and took one last peek in the mirror. Fine. No one could tell by looking at him that he’d just had one of the most erotic nights of his life. His gaze dropped to the items on his dresser: the pomade, the cards, the hourglass, even the wrapper his cigarettes had been in, all had a special meaning to him, for Jimmy had touched or been in possession of every one of them. He smirked to himself, and then turned to leave.

A glance over at his bed sent him stepping back quickly. Imagine Mrs. Hughes coming in to inspect the servants’ quarters and finding four lengths of rope dangling from the corners of his bed! He almost fainted at the thought. Quickly, he untied each rope and wound them together into a spool. Then he tucked them into the top corner of his dresser, and turned to flee downstairs.  
When he entered the servants’ hall, everyone was seated for breakfast already, and they all turned questioning looks toward him as he took his seat. Mr. Carson, of course, spoke first in his measured way.

“James mentioned that you were rather tied up this morning, Mr. Barrow, but I can’t imagine what could have kept you so busy that you would be late for breakfast…?”

Thomas shot a look of disbelief at Jimmy, who calmly ate his eggs with a cherubic look on his mobile face. Then he turned back to Mr. Carson and managed the quickest lie he could.

“Ah, it was Mr. Branson, Mr. Carson, he stopped me on the way in with some question about evening wear for next week…” Thomas rallied then, and slipped into his Natural Liar mode. “If he had a man of his own, of course, he wouldn’t have to ask.”

Carson nodded understandingly. “I see. Yes. Quite.”

Jimmy spoke up smoothly. “I think everyone should have a man of his own.” He didn’t even look up from buttering his toast, but the corners of his lips curved very slightly. My God, he’s cheeky, thought Thomas, in love with everything about Jimmy, from the wave of hair over his forehead to the way he slowly stroked the toast with his knife. He’s teasing me, Thomas realized, and turned away quickly as Carson cleared his throat.

“Yes. Well. It’s not for us to criticize… however correct the observation may be,” he added drily. Then the first bell rang and Thomas scooped up as much breakfast as he could, quickly.

An hour later, Thomas stood attention in the upstairs breakfast room, and admired how deftly Jimmy waltzed in with more bacon, and set it down, and left again with only the merest glance flicked in his direction. But his attention was drawn off with alarm when Mr. Carson addressed Mr. Branson suddenly, as the latter closed his newspaper.

“I hope Barrow was able to help you this morning with your questions about evening attire, Miss-ter Branson,” He always laid a stress on “MISTER Branson.”

Tom Branson looked from Carson to Thomas. “Pardon me?”

Carson repeated his statement more slowly, as if addressing a child, while Branson took in Thomas’s look of silent panic behind the old butler. Branson, having once been the chauffeur, understood the gist of the situation, if not the details, directly.

“Yes. Yes, he did. Thank you.” Branson said, setting the paper down with a little smile and glancing across at Lady Edith, who of course had never been a servant and had no idea.

“Why don’t you get a valet?” She asked him, and Branson wondered how many times he’d been asked that now.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, amused, and hoped that later he’d find out what he’d just covered for. Out of the corner he could see Barrow wilting with relief.

Thomas missed Jimmy as he smoked his mid-morning cigarette out back. Just like the days following their first kiss, Jimmy was avoiding being alone with him again. He wondered if this were a sort of pattern, wherein Jimmy moved forward a few steps, skittered a nervous retreat for a day or two, and then ventured forward again a few steps more. It made sense: take a risk, over-extend your nerve, retreat and wait to see if there would be fall-out, or if your inner-self berates you too much. Then, if all is silent, venture a few steps more…

If that were the case, Thomas could expect not to have any time alone with Jimmy for two or three days. Perhaps the trick was not to panic, or fall into despair like before, but just to wait it out. Python-like. Thomas put out the cigarette and decided to observe, and keep his emotions under control.

He cut through the hall in time to see Carson direct Jimmy to fetch something from the silver pantry. It would be natural, Thomas mused, to find an excuse to follow Jimmy in and steal a few moments breathing the warm scent from his neck. He hesitated, and Jimmy immediately stepped into the kitchen where Alfred was mooning over Ivy.

“Help me find something, would you?” He asked Alfred, pretending not to see Thomas lingering. Ah, that’s how you’ll play it, Thomas thought with a little smile. Don’t want to be in there alone, do you? Alfred looked over reluctantly “Mr. Barrow probably knows where it is,” he complained, and Thomas spoke up immediately, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“Oh help him, Alfred, if you can tear yourself away,” He said rather nastily, and then turned and mounted the stairs with dignity. There. I will not chase you into the silver pantry, Jimmy Kent, no matter how much I want to.

He adhered to this policy the entire day, refusing to pursue Jimmy a single step. He vowed he wouldn’t even bring up cards that evening, although as it turned out, he didn’t need to. At dinner, Mr. Carson announced, “I think I shall declare a moratorium in the playing of cards amongst the staff for the time being. It’s a dangerous habit, and I note that already Alfred is out a portion of his paycheck. As for you, Mr. Barrow, I observed that the light was still on under your door at nearly midnight, and I cannot help but feel that your choice of recreation has something to do with your tardiness this morning… Mr. Branson not-withstanding.”

A close observer would have noticed that Thomas and Jimmy both grew as still as hunted things upon this observation. Fortunately, Mrs. Hughes and the Bates’s were the only observant ones now that the feared Miss O’Brien had left for India.  
Anna and her husband exchanged a knowing look, and Mrs. Hughes sighed, but no one else reacted much, and Daisy commented later to Mrs. Pattmore that Mr. Carson was right, and too much cards were a bad thing for anyone.

That night in the servant’s hall, Jimmy entertained them with a few lively airs on the piano, and Thomas forced himself to bid them all goodnight and leave while the rest were still lingering. As he turned to go, Jimmy gave him a look of surprise and the music stopped as Thomas left. When he reached the stairs, he heard the music start again, but with a much different mood. He paused and listened for a moment. Jimmy was playing the opening bars of “Greensleeves,” and as Thomas hesitated on the step, his mind filled in the lyrics—

_Alas, my love, you do me wrong_  
To cast me off discourteously  
For I have loved you well and long  
Delighting in your company. 

The music ceased after that point, and Thomas smiled to himself. I’ve got you, he thought. Pushing down the powerful urge to run back into the room and cover Jimmy’s face with kisses right there in front of everyone, he turned and resolutely mounted the stairs to the servants’ quarters.

Though he bathed and primped a bit that night, Thomas knew Jimmy would probably not come to him after the lights were out. It was best to smell and taste as sweet as you can when laying traps for a loved one, but one has to keep in mind that sometimes the prey is too nervous to leave its burrow. Thomas occupied himself with rearranging his top drawer so that all his little treasures sanctified by Jimmy’s touch were in one corner (including the rope, which was now a beloved memento), and items not related to this vibrating chase were in the other. Finally he lay down and tried to read, but his attention was distracted every time the shadow of feet passed by his door.

Then, finally, when all had gotten quiet, and Thomas was just about to turn off the light, one pair of feet came to his door and stopped there. Thomas stopped breathing and stared, waiting to hear a tap at the door, or see the turning of the knob. Nothing came. But the shadow didn’t move away.

I know you are right outside my door, he said in his thoughts. You can come in. I won’t hurt you. I won’t demolish you. All I want is to show you what love can be like…

The urge to go to the door, open it, and coax Jimmy in was all-pervasive, but Thomas held firm. After an agonizing moment, the feet retreated. Thomas wanted to beat his head on the wall, but he told himself No. No, it’s working. Not pursuing just yet, it’s working. He almost came to me. He was this close.

Still, it was a long night. After his lights were out, Thomas felt himself stretching his hands up to the corners of the bed and mentally reliving the previous night. God, I’d let you do anything you wanted, he thought.

Jimmy, for his part, was indeed the shadow that had hovered outside the door. He almost reached for it, truly, his hand had been moving toward the knob. But he was still a little amazed at himself about the previous night. He had not intended to do ANY of the things he’d done that night.

The plan had been simply to tie Thomas up and lie down with him, just feel what it felt like to lie next to another man, and perhaps be close enough to touch his skin, and smell his cologne, and his warmth. Might be fun to tease him a little, but… Jimmy had taken himself so far out into deep waters, he was still shocked, despite his jaunty demeanor downstairs.

Some of it was the unexpected emotion that swept over him once Thomas was well and truly secured, and the door was blocked, the lights were out, the house was still. From the moonlight he could see that pale face staring up at him, silent, pleading, and unguarded. He could see the faint scars left by The Beating, and had begun touching them without really thinking. It was like the impulse that had made him grab Thomas’s hand and caress it, awed and horrified by the scars he bore.

And then one thing had just led to another. He’d meant to stop every step of the way, but Thomas’s ragged breathing, the way he’d bit at his lips and squirmed, trying to keep quiet, had all gone to Jimmy’s head. “I can do anything,” he thought, because it was true. And his exploration had simply proceeded by inches, each moment telling himself that he would just go a tiny bit further and then stop.

Till finally, having Thomas completely at his mercy made him want to… master him, somehow. Make him beg. Make him lose that icy composure and be Jimmy's helpless creature.

Jimmy turned away from the door, having reached the end of his nerve. He retreated to his bed, terribly aware that Thomas was NOT tied up tonight. Half the night he expected Thomas to intrude, and appear over his bed, whispering, “Come to me, Jimmy. Just let me touch you…” And when morning came, and no such event had occurred, Jimmy arose feeling, honestly, a touch affronted. He didn’t come, he thought, tying his bow tie with irritable jerks.

At breakfast, Jimmy put on a haughty and discouraging face, until he met Thomas’s eye and saw only a kind and understanding gaze. It washed over him again, suddenly, that the other man was indeed in love with him. If Thomas hadn’t come, it was because he hadn’t dared. Well, that was fine. Jimmy sank from his offended heights and went from haughty over the eggs, to yearning over the toast, to feeling a little wicked again by the time he finished his coffee.

They stood up to begin their day, and as Carson and Mrs. Hughes moved to their respective stations, and the others set off in various directions, Jimmy worked his fingers into his collar for a moment, and then said, “Mr. Barrow, I feel like my collar’s not right. Is it?” And he stepped up to Thomas in full view of Alfred, who was right behind him, and offered his throat trustingly.

Thomas’s face softened with wonder for a moment, and he lifted both hands as if to caress Jimmy’s collar. But he paused, looked long at the collar, and finally said, “It’s fine, Jimmy. You look fine.” He glanced over Alfred too, in a benign manner, and pronounced approvingly, “You both look very sharp.” Then, controlling his breathing conscientiously, he shooed them both toward the door. “Step lively now, quick-quick, got a starving family to feed up there…” and both of the younger men exited before him, Alfred oblivious to the moment that had just passed, Jimmy prickling with ire that Thomas had actually passed up a chance to touch him.

That afternoon, Thomas brought tea to Lord Grantham and Branson as they hovered over some farming plans in the library. Branson looked up at him with a bit of a glint in his eye, and said, “You’re not trying to set me up with a valet, are you?”

Thomas was caught out for a moment, but decided to play it off kindly, for he was grateful to Branson for his quick save earlier. “Only I think it would be convenient for you, and suited to your position,” he managed to purr.

Lord Grantham shot Branson a look as if to say, See, even the servants think so—when Mr. Carson appeared in the door of the library. “The Dowager Countess has arrived, your Lordship,” he stated ponderously, and Robert stepped after him, saying, “Oh yes, show her in for some tea and I’ll go get Cora.”

Thomas stood by the tea and offered the elderly Countess a cup as soon as she was settled. She turned stiffly and looked up at his hair, “Oh, good,” was all she said. Branson sat down near her with a cup and smiled tentatively at her, for no one was ever completely at ease around the waspish old rogue.

She turned to her granddaughter’s widower and said, “So, how goes your plan to raise your daughter as a Catholic here in this bastion of Protestantism?”

Tom laughed slightly, and said, “I think Lord Grantham is afraid we’ll pollute the walls with the smell of incense.”

The Countess gave the most ladylike version of a snort possible, and said, “Yes, well. Robert forgets that our family was once Catholic too, many generations ago.” In measured tones, she added, “This house has smelled incense before.”

Tom looked surprised. “Really?!”

She tittered, “Oh yes. We even have a priest’s hole.”

Branson leaned forward, intrigued, “A what?”

Mr. Carson appeared behind Thomas and said quietly, “I will serve the tea, thank you, Mr. Barrow. You had expressed an interest in taking over some tasks pertaining to inventory, I believe. You may start with an inventory of the silver, if you will. I have left the list in the silver pantry.” Carson’s tone did not invite negotiation, and so Thomas inclined his head stiffly, gave him a false smile, and retreated to the silver pantry.

At first he closed the door to the pantry behind him, but then it occurred to him that a certain slight blond footman might wander by and see his Thomas all alone in the silver pantry. Accordingly, he left the door wide open, took up the list, and turned his back squarely to the door to avoid even the appearance of being on the look-out.

Thomas inventoried the silver unmolested for 20 minutes, and was beginning to give up hope when he heard Jimmy’s voice behind him.

“Oh, Mr. Barrow, there you are. I wondered if you had a stamp.” He said, for the benefit of anyone who might be nearby to hear. And in such a house, there was always someone nearby to hear. Then Jimmy came into the small room and closed the door behind them.

Contentment poured over Thomas’s heart like melted wax, and he turned without making his face into its usual mask. Jimmy gave him a rather confrontational stare, and then glanced around the room.

“What’re you doing?”

“Inventory,” Thomas said, laying down the list. He was done anyway.

They regarded each other silently for a moment. Thomas’s face was an open declaration of tenderness, but Jimmy’s was still slightly defensive. He seemed to be waiting for Thomas to make a move, but after a moment, when the older man only stood and gazed benignly at him, Jimmy turned his back and headed for the door.

A cold feeling shot through Thomas’s stomach, and he wondered if he’d been too restrained, and Jimmy didn’t see how welcome he was. He was just opening his mouth to protest when he realized that Jimmy wasn’t leaving. Thomas watched as Jimmy pulled open the drawer in the cabinet under the counter that was perpendicular to the door, and left it ajar, forming a rudimentary block that prevented the door from opening. He returned to Thomas, who gazed over his shoulder for a moment at the drawer. That was brilliant, he mused, and then turned back to Jimmy.

They gazed at each other for a tense moment, and then Thomas whispered, “How’s my collar?”

Jimmy’s eyes flicked down to it for a second, and then his hands came up and grasped the collar, pulling Thomas close to his face. Their heads tilted accommodatingly, and they began kissing gently at first. Thomas reached up to hold Jimmy’s head to him, kissing him tenderly in the manner they had already developed between them—amazing how quickly we adapt to a lover’s style--and then slowly, very carefully, he introduced a lick here and there to the lips, and then between them, and he could hear the other man making slight noises in his throat that could have been panic or pleasure.

The deeper they went, the more heat built up between them, and the tighter they grasped one another. At some point both of them tipped over that edge where one is no longer thinking anything rational, only squeezing that other warm body closer and tighter, reaching farther into them, and accepting them farther into one’s own self, digging in the fingers, and pressing the hips together in grinding and aggressive circles. Dizziness sets in, and one gets dark thoughts of consuming and devouring, and becomes almost violent.

Thomas slid his hand down over Jimmy’s buttocks and began to work his fingers invasively into the cleft, and the younger man’s knees literally buckled, and he tore his mouth free, gasping, and fought his way clear in a panic. He backed against the nearest wall and slid down to the floor, partly collapse, partly a defensive huddle, and Thomas leaned both hands against the wall and tried to control his breathing.

Jimmy stared up at Thomas from the floor at his feet and they both just quivered for a moment. “I won’t even be a man anymore when you’re finished with me,” Jimmy whispered accusingly.

Thomas grimaced as such a statement. “Of course you’ll still be a man,” he said, still breathing heavily.

“Will I?” Jimmy asked, and his funny little face twisted so beseechingly that Thomas almost let out a sob.

“Yes,” he whispered, and sank down to join Jimmy. He kissed the other man’s temple tenderly. “You will be. Don’t be silly. Don’t be afraid.” He kissed him again and again, and then they both heard the strident tones of Mrs. Pattmore coming across the kitchen wanting to know why the soup tureen was not on the table, for if it wasn’t on the table how could she put the blinkin’ soup in it, and who do you have to bribe around here to get the help to bring a simple soup tureen, for the love of King and country, how on earth--

And they straightened themselves, and smoothed their hair, and pressed their hands to their faces for a bit. Then Jimmy took the tureen, closed the drawer, and exited the pantry. Thomas remained behind for a while, staring at the spot on the floor where Jimmy had folded up. Not so tough when my hands are free, are you, he thought. But there was no malice or triumph behind the thought. “I have more compassion than you think I do,” he said to himself, remembering where he’d heard it last. He understood it. He felt, at that moment, like he understood everything in the world, and everyone in it. Finally he took a deep breath and left the pantry, taking the inventory list to Mr. Carson.


	4. Getting In Deeper

As they waited table upstairs, Thomas tried to catch Jimmy’s eye occasionally, but the blond averted his gaze steadfastly. Not just from Thomas, but from everyone. He performed correctly but mechanically, and kept a distant mien throughout.

That may have been a bridge too far, Thomas thought, regretting that final grope in the silver pantry. He brooded a bit, pondering the sort of masculinity that can put its mouth and tongue to such uses, but has a fit of the vapors over where another man puts his hands. Perhaps it doesn’t count if I’m tied up, he mused, and the thought made him smile as he stood stiffly at attention against the wall.

Suddenly he was aware that Lady Edith was looking directly at him. “Barrow remembers him, I see.” She said.

Thomas snapped out of his reverie and realized that the family was all looking at him. They had obviously been discussing someone. He blinked a few times, utterly lost.

Lord Grantham leaned back and favored Thomas with a quizzical eye. “Do you, Barrow? It’s been… what, 8 years.” He seemed to ponder the matter for a moment, “but then I suppose it’s not often we have a Duke visiting us. Especially one which such an eccentric side,” he finished wryly.

Thomas took a deep breath. Now he knew who they were discussing. Lady Grantham turned to him with a simper, “Barrow, you acted as his valet at the time. Did he speak openly in front of you about his intentions?”

Thomas felt his way carefully. “He did, milady.”

She pursed her lips and turned her face back to the table with a dissatisfied movement of her shoulders. “I suppose you were less surprised than anyone when he left,” she murmured.

Thomas didn’t think he was required to respond, so he didn’t, but he kept alert after that.

“Well, my circumstances haven’t actually changed,” said Lady Mary coldly, “so I don’t see why we’re going to be honored with another unexpected visit.”

“But they have changed,” her father said pointedly, returning to his meal. “George is the heir, but if something happens to me before he comes of age, you’ll enjoy a period of certain financial control.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you—“Lady Mary began impatiently, but then stopped, looking first at her hands, and then over at Tom Branson. They held each other’s gaze for a moment in memoriam, each noting silently that Death had taken a keen interest in Downton Abbey this last year.

Cora sighed and then put on her usual placating smile. “Shall we go through?”

The ladies departed, and Thomas went to bring them their coffee while Carson retained the privilege of handing out the cigars and brandy to the two men who remained.

Lord Grantham gave Tom Branson a long look. I suppose you are my only son now, he thought moodily. “Cigar?” He offered.

“You know I don’t like cigars.” Branson said.

Lord Grantham sighed and stared into the candlelight.

 

Later, as Thomas, Alfred, and Jimmy cleared up, Thomas glanced over to see if there was any thaw. Jimmy met his eyes once and then continued gathering the flatware, but at least it was something.

“Can we talk?” He hissed, when they were bit apart from the others.

Jimmy made a restless gesture that looked like a negative. Thomas sucked on the insides of his cheeks irritably. Negotiating Jimmy’s fears was like carving a path through a minefield, he thought. He decided to bide his time until after they had finished for the evening and the others were enjoying their few minutes of relaxation downstairs.

“Play us a song, Jimmy,” Ivy requested that night as they lounged around the servants hall, a bit adrift since cards were forbidden. Jimmy demurred, saying he wasn’t inclined to play tonight. Ivy whined a bit, but Thomas interrupted.

“You have to be in the mood, don’t you Jimmy?” He asked pleasantly, basically forcing Jimmy to acknowledge his presence. The younger man nodded unhappily. Thomas made his decision. “Well, then, perhaps you could step outside with me while I take a bit of a break. I need to talk to you.”

He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and moved toward the door. Jimmy hesitated, looking as if he was searching for an excuse not to comply, when Thomas, a little alarmed, pulled rank and added a commanding “Now.” He stared at Jimmy with his eyebrows raised imperiously.

The entire room seemed to freeze for a moment. Thomas had not snapped at the others nearly as much in recent months, and never at Jimmy. Indeed, he’d been… almost pleasant since The Beating, as several other members of the staff had commented to one another. This seemed rather like the Old Thomas.

Jimmy looked as if all the starch had drained out of him, and he rose with a nervous swallow, and followed Thomas obediently out of the room, down the hallway, and through the door into the cold night air. Thomas lit a cigarette and there was a moment of silence.

“Yes, Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy said bitterly.

Thomas sighed out a cloud of smoke. He glanced around to make sure they were alone. “I’m sorry I frightened you today.”

Jimmy snorted. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said with a flash of his old cockiness.

Thomas gave him a serious look, but spoke gently. “Someone in that room frightened you, and there was only you and me.”  
Jimmy couldn’t deny that. Suddenly his face twisted up in that plaintive way that Thomas found so piquant, and he looked squarely at Thomas. “What do you want from me?”

“Everything.” Thomas bit out immediately, and then mentally cursed those rare flashes of honesty that always come at the worst time and catch one by surprise. He tried to hide behind another puff of smoke, as Jimmy looked alternately at him, and at the ground, and back at him.

“But… what does that mean?” He asked.

Thomas studied his cigarette for a while. Finally he said, “When I was young, me dad had a little shop, repairing clocks. We lived in the rooms upstairs, and it was a dreary, dark place, but not too bad, I suppose. Clean, I mean. I was his only son, and he’d meant to leave the business to me when I was old enough. But I didn’t fancy that. I wanted away from small, dark little rooms, and that smell of oil and metal. I didn’t want to have dirty fingers all the time like my father. I wanted to work in a place where it felt good just to walk across the open floor. A place with big windows you could see out onto the lawns, where ladies and gentlemen wore their best clothes, and jewels, and took you with them to London, and Scotland, and sometimes even abroad. I wanted a place like Downton.”

Jimmy listened attentively, but it was clear he didn’t understand the point of this narrative.

“And I’ve done well, over all,” Thomas continued contemplatively. Then he looked at Jimmy. “But now, for the first time, I can imagine having a li’l shop of my own, where I’d work a full day, and then go to the pub and have a meal and a pint, and then come home and go upstairs and have rooms of my own, and privacy. And I could imagine you up there in those rooms with me.”

Jimmy made a disparaging sound, “We couldn’t live together like that, people’d know.”

“Not if you were my employee. There was always a room in the back for a worker. No one need know you’d be coming up the stairs at night. You’d just be the boy I hired to help me out.” Thomas smiled at the smoke drifting up.

“And do everything you said, I suppose,” Jimmy added, casting him a look.

“By day,” Thomas nodded. “But at night, upstairs,” he turned and gave Jimmy his most serious and direct look, and his voice fell to a whisper. “I’d do whatever it took to make you happy, and make you want to stay. Anything you liked, I’d do. Anything you didn’t, I wouldn’t.”

Jimmy seemed caught in Thomas’s gaze. He didn’t move or respond. Thomas leaned a little closer, his voice barely audible, “—but it’s like that already, see? I won’t do anything if you don’t like it.”

Jimmy’s eyes traveled around the face so near his own, from the steady blue eyes to the red lips, and back up again. He couldn’t respond.

“Come see me tonight,” Thomas whispered. “I’ll show you.”

Then Alfred stepped out of the doorway, and called “Are you still out here? Mrs. Hughes says you’re going to freeze.”

Thomas put out his cigarette, and Jimmy cleared up from the trance Thomas had put him in, and they both went silently inside.  
Thomas bade them all goodnight and went directly upstairs. He wanted a bath, he wanted another shave, he wanted to set a very attractive stage tonight, for he was confident that the way Jimmy’s eyes had glazed over when he whispered to him was highly promising. When all was in readiness, he settled in to wait.

It seemed like a long time before he heard the others coming upstairs for the evening. He lounged in his bed, pretending to read in the lamplight, and watched the shadows go back and forth beneath his door. One by one, he could hear the doors opening, the trips to the lavatory, the voices of the women at the far end of the hall, a gruff word or two from Mr. Carson. He heard the bedroom doors shutting again. His heart was beating louder than usual, and the later it got the more he felt a pain, or pressure building up inside his chest. Finally, the house was still.

Biting his lips in chagrin, Thomas put down the book, turned off the lamp at his bedside, and lay brooding in the dark. Mentally, he walked through those rooms he’d described to Jimmy, the small, dark upstairs rooms crowded with his mother’s furniture and silly knick-knacks she’d gotten from her own mother and grandmother. But if those rooms had Jimmy in them, they wouldn’t be so dark, would they? Imagine lying on a davenport by a fireplace late at night, with Jimmy in his arms, and just watching the flames together. Would it matter how big and grand a room it was?

Suddenly he heard the creak of his door, and a white figure slipped noiselessly in. Thomas sat up, all the pain in his chest vanishing in a glowing instant. Jimmy gestured to him to help lift the chest of drawers across the floor and place it in front of the door. Thomas rose, and did so wordlessly. They moved as silently as they could, and then turned back to the bed and stood on either side of it for a moment, gazing at each other. Thomas lay down first and opened his arms invitingly. Jimmy hesitated, and then crawled into them, and went limp on top of him, with his face buried the warm neck, and the protective arms closed around him and tightened. And for a long time, neither of them moved.

Outside in the cold night, clouds passed over the waning moon, and Downton Abbey loomed like a black, sharp-peaked mountain range on a well-manicured plain. In her nursery, little Sybbie was restless, and her nurse sleepily rocked her back and forth by the dim fire, petting her head idly as she hummed a soft tune.

Up in a dark attic room, Jimmy Kent was cradled too, by hands that stroked his hair and shoulders, and squeezed him deliciously close, kneaded the muscles in his neck until he was pliant and warm. Then they maneuvered him over onto his back, as Thomas’s kisses worked and softened and filled his mouth until they were molded to fit together perfectly. There’s nothing so exquisite as feeling the heat and weight of the person you most adore wrapping around you, gradually bearing down upon you, more and more directly until you’re pinned squarely under them, barely able to breath, but wishing an invisible force would press them down even harder into you until the two of you blended into one beating, twisting, melded sculpture.

It was much easier in the dark, Jimmy found, to let Thomas ease his fingers up beneath his simple white undershirt and massage the skin over his ribs and back and belly, slow but firm, and determined to make every inch feel him. Up under his arms, over his nipples, around his neck… Jimmy was happy to let his nightclothes be finally peeled off of him and cast to the floor, happy at last to open his arms and stretch out, and let Thomas touch him everywhere.

Gradually, he stopped thinking about what this meant, or how he came to love this rough-voiced, black-haired incubus. Jimmy’s legs wrapped around Thomas’s, his hands went into that dark hair, and he pressed against the other man, mindless of almost everything but the need to keep as quiet as possible. They moved together in whispers and sighs, turning slowly and carefully on the narrow cot, through most of the night.

 

When the sky lightened, Thomas woke Jimmy up very gently, and helped him back into his nightclothes. The young man seemed a little disoriented, and moved as though some of his muscles had been rather stressed. But he didn’t evidence any guilty or horror-stricken spiritual convulsions, Thomas was relieved to see. When he pulled Jimmy into one last embrace before setting him free to sneak back into his own room, Jimmy melted into him bonelessly, and Thomas thought his heart would break from sheer happiness. He held him for as long as he dared, noting with a glow that Jimmy made no move to end it. For a moment, Thomas felt a touch of unease, and cupped his lover’s face and stared into his eyes, nervous that perhaps he’d wiped out more than just resistance last night. He hoped he hadn’t completely eradicated Jimmy’s sense of self.

But Jimmy met his eyes with a loving gaze, and Thomas pressed a stubbly cheek against the smoother one, and then turned him loose. They eased the dresser away from the door, turned the knob slowly, peeked into the empty hall, and then Jimmy slipped back into his own room.

After a moment of contented reflection, Thomas turned to begin preparations for the morning, and suddenly remembered the conversation he’d overheard in the dining hall the previous night. Something about the Duke. Visiting. Again. Here.

He paused for a moment, and his eyes went to the top drawer where he once had collected beloved treasures from another liaison. There’d been a collection of letters, all wrapped in blue ribbon. Thomas grimaced, remembering his younger self, and the excitement and glee he’d experienced, reading those letters over and over, his mind ringing with idea that a Duke was in love with him. A Duke! The fantasies then had been wildly glamorous: his royal lover would take him to Paris, to Prague, to Monte Carlo, would gamble with nobility, cavort with the rich and exotic and beautiful, but always return home to his darling valet. They’d live in luxury, Thomas imagined. The Duke would scold himself lightly about letting his valet sleep in his satin sheets with him. He’d make Thomas gifts of diamond rings… he shook his head now to think how extravagant his imaginings had been.

And here now he was wishing he could just have some little cottage, or rooms, or… just some private place where he could safely enjoy the slight, blond buffet he’d finally captured. Little rabbit, he thought. I’ll nibble on you every night, and make you last as long as I can. There was no glamour dazzling his eyes now. He just wanted to love Jimmy.

Then Thomas became aware that the room was getting brighter, and it was time to face the day. Duke indeed. He almost looked forward to seeing the man again, and letting his indifference show. The bastard must really be going broke now if he wanted to marry the Ice Queen on the slim hope that Robert Crawley would hurry up and die, and he could help her deplete George’s fortune before the child attained legal age.

The downstairs was in a bustle at the thought of the Duke. Apparently he was arriving on very short notice, tomorrow in fact, and several of the newer servants had not been here on his first, abortive sojourn so many years ago.

“I was here,” Daisy mentioned to Ivy as they made breakfast, “but I only caught a glimpse of ‘im. He was gone again almost directly and Mr. Carson wouldn’t let me in sight.” She smiled, “But I saw ‘im from a window when he left.”

Ivy was enthralled, “Was he handsome?” she asked, and Alfred, leaning against the wall, made a disgusted sound.

“Ever so handsome,” Daisy smiled. Thomas heard them as he entered the room to glance about at preparations.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” he told them coldly, and Mrs. Pattmore, behind him, said,

“If that were true, you’d be a stone gargoyle! Now step aside or you’ll get flour on your sleeve.” He gave her a sour look but withdrew from the kitchen without comment, still too sated and content inside to take any real offense.

At breakfast, Jimmy seemed detached from the conversation around him, but very relaxed. Inward turned, but not in anxiety as so often before. He just looked like he was listening to mellow music in his head. Thomas imagined it was Greensleeves, and that they were both listening to it. Once, their eyes met and Thomas could have sworn they were indeed both hearing the same notes.

“Aren’t you excited?” Anna Bates asked Jimmy suddenly, “To meet a Duke, I mean?” Jimmy shrugged slightly. Anna continued, “I wonder if you’ll be valeting for him this time. If he shows up without one, will it be Jimmy or Alfred? He wouldn’t need an under-butler, would he?” Anna asked Mr. Carson.

Thomas sat very still, feeling as if he’d just drunk a huge jar of ice-water, and the coldness was seeping into his stomach. This wasn’t something he’d thought of.

“I’d tend to him again. I have before,” he said instantly. There was no pleasure in the thought at all, in fact, his initial thought had been: You won’t get me alone again, you sod. But anything was preferable to having the Duke leering at Jimmy.

“I suppose the Duke will have his own valet this time,” Carson opined, and the conversation was dropped.

Only the downstairs staff manifested any eagerness to meet the Duke again. Lord Grantham, seated at his desk in the library, rolled his eyes when Mr. Carson approached to inform him that the guest room was ready, and that arrangements were complete for the grand arrival.

“Thank you, Carson,” he said absently. Tom Branson, who entered the library behind Carson, listened, and then said, “I think I’ll take Sybbie for a ride tomorrow afternoon.”

Robert turned to regard him politely. “You won’t be here to greet His Grace?” He said, with unmistakable irony on those last words.

“No.” Tom said bluntly. “He’s not the sort who interests me.”

For once, Carson did not look pained when Tom Branson spoke. He agreed. The Duke had insulted his Lady Mary eight years ago, and butlers, like elephants, never forget.

Robert got up with a sigh. “Well. You’ll see him at supper, I suppose. If you have any curiosity at all, that will probably satisfy it.”  
Branson gave an appreciative grin, and then, to Robert’s surprise, ambled over to a corner of the library near the smaller fireplace beyond the entryway, and perused the books on the shelves by the window. Robert regarded him for a moment.

“Those are all French.” He called. “If you want something revolutionary they’re over here,” he pointed. Tom glanced over and smiled, and then turned back to the shelves by the window. Robert watched him, puzzled.

“Do you read French?” he asked.

“No.” Tom said, and finally moved away.

Cora swept into the room, glittery in lavender. “Your mother says she will be here to meet the Duke,” she said wryly. Robert nodded. He didn’t care one way or the other.

Out back, Thomas lit a cigarette and squinted off into the distance. Jimmy drifted out to join him and they sat together in companionable silence on the stacked wooden boxes near the door. Looking around to see no one was near, Thomas reached over to trace his fingers over Jimmy’s hand, and they fondled one another’s fingers for a moment. When even affection is forbidden, the slightest touch has added spice.

“You don’t like this Duke, do you?” Jimmy asked.

“No.” Thomas said shortly, and then, seeking to change the subject, asked “How do you feel this morning?”

Jimmy looked around, and then said, “Quiet, mostly. I mean, there’s been so much going on in my head for months, and now it’s all just stopped, and I feel like my head is… just kind of empty.”

Thomas caressed his fingers. “Do you trust me now, Jimmy?”

Jimmy stared off at some distant spot on the ground. “I do.” He admitted.

Thomas put out his cigarette. “I want you to remember that. Alright?”

Jimmy looked up in some curiosity, and then smiled slightly. “I will.”

Thomas leaned in close, “You’re coming to me again tonight?” His eyes were intent and Jimmy felt rather weak in his stomach and thighs.

“Yes,” he whispered, feeling that he no longer really had a choice in the matter. He’d always known that once he gave in completely, Thomas would take over the lead in this dance, and he was right. Thomas was the stronger personality, it was simply the truth. And if he wanted Jimmy to come, and lie down, and be his, then this must be. There was no point now in trying to protect anything. Not from Thomas.


	5. Thomas vs the Duke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Duke is back. And Thomas is sometimes unwise.

Work Text:

For Jimmy, coming to Thomas was no less thrilling the second night. The mere experience of opening his own door, looking left and right down the hall, and then slinging a towel casually over his shoulder as if he were merely on the way back from the lavatory, made Jimmy’s heart start pounding. Next, there were the five paces to the door. He watched his own hand reach for the doorknob and dimly knew that whatever happened, he would always have to know that he walked willingly into the lion’s den. The mental picture of his own hand on the doorknob sometimes floated back to him at strange times.

Then there was the quiet opening of the door, the entrance into the dark room—for Jimmy always waited till the lamp was out. (If Thomas had known that was what Jimmy was waiting for, he’d have thrown all his lamps out the window.) Stepping into the dark room was a commitment in and of itself, and felt like a border crossing of some sort, into another country. The whole room smelled like Thomas, his scent, the cologne he wore, a trace of tobacco. The aroma seemed like the first step in a nightly seduction, the initial gentle assault that made Jimmy’s mind stop functioning, and made his body begin.

Jimmy would close the door behind him, and all the strength would drain from his shoulders, and the tension from his neck, and he felt a slight ache in his mouth and throat, almost the sort of ache or taste one gets at the first hint of tears. But it couldn’t have been sorrow, for deep in his stomach he felt heavy and luxurious. Finally, he faced the man who waited eagerly for him in the dark blue shadows, and he felt his lips curving into a smile. What a strange ritual it was becoming.

Thomas was sitting on the bed, waiting for him, admiring the smooth slope of neck and shoulders, the unconsciously graceful way Jimmy moved. Thomas wasn’t clumsy himself, not by any means. His strength and balance were nicely controlled, but one could sense the will and muscle behind his movement. Jimmy seemed more like a fluid that slipped into the soft spots of the air.

This time, they didn’t have to communicate at all, not at first. Each moved to the end of the dresser, picked it up, carefully relocated it in front of the door, set it down, and stepped away. Jimmy came to Thomas without hesitation, and Thomas took Jimmy’s towel, wrapped it round the other man’s waist with a little smile, and pulled him tightly against his own body. Jimmy fell against him pliantly, and his head dropped onto Thomas’s shoulder as those red lips went warmly into his quarry’s neck and began kissing and sucking at it, very slowly, under the ear, and down the column of Jimmy’s neck, and gradually back up again. He took his time, like a vampire who doesn’t want his victim to expire too soon.

When Thomas finally raised his head, it was indeed as though he had drunk all the strength out of Jimmy and into himself, and he guided his dizzy lover to the bed and let him slide down onto it.

“Take everything off,” Thomas whispered, and watched with satisfaction as he was obeyed. He wanted Jimmy naked under his hands for a while, and as he played with the other man’s nerve endings, watching him alternatively twitch and sigh, stiffen and writhe, Thomas felt like a master gently torturing a beloved slave, or a concubine servicing a beautiful young prince, both at the same time. He wanted to do things to Jimmy till there was nothing left to do, and then start over.

Eventually, late in the night, Jimmy was fully initiated, face down, eyes squeezed shut, Thomas lying on him, lodged deeply, almost painfully up inside him, with one hand around Jimmy’s throat and the other hand down between his legs in a firm grip. Trapped completely, Jimmy felt as though his entire self was his body, and his body had turned into a vessel meant for frightening pleasures. He pushed his hips back against the warm body atop him, his body tingling as it worked to accommodate this invasion, and was rewarded with a wave of agonizing pleasure every time that body ground him back into the hands that squeezed him. He thought he’d die, he almost wished Thomas could kill him with pleasure and that this would be the last sensation he ever had to feel. Gradually, Thomas sped up his attack, hips working in an upward, almost licking motion, and Jimmy gasped, grew rigid, and went into violent convulsions, grinding his forehead into the bed as his body gave up everything to the man taking it, it in a sharp, prolonged explosion of intense gratitude.

Much later, Thomas sat up in bed, smoking in the dark, as Jimmy lay sleeping, curled between his legs, his unconscious face on the warm, furred stomach. Thomas absently stroked the blond hair and squeezed his legs gently tighter around the curled figure. He stared down at him broodingly. He felt more protective toward Jimmy than ever. The feeling in his chest was almost violent: this lad is mine, he thought darkly. If anyone touches him, I’ll kill them. I truly will.

The Duke was arriving in seven hours.

***

To Thomas’s ineffable relief, the Duke brought his own valet, a thin, pale fellow with a countenance both old and unlined, as if it had never been marred by a facial expression, and his flesh had merely sunk into the bone over time. The car pulled up at the expected time, and the Crawley family turned out to greet the royal personage, their lack of enthusiasm covered gracefully. The servants lined up neatly, (Bates, clutching his cane, had a disagreeable flashback but held steady.) The Duke gave them the benefit of his charm for a moment, gazing agreeably upon them all. His gaze lingered amusedly upon Thomas for a moment, as if to say “still here, poor chap, well, well.”

But the Duke did give Jimmy a second glance before they were all dismissed, to Thomas’s intense unease. As they all returned to their stations, he glowered at the back of the Duke’s head. You’re going bald, he noted with satisfaction. Serves you right.

In the long, beautifully appointed dining hall that night, the Duke comported himself with his usual charm, radiating his attentions on Edith and Mary both just enough to please them, and raising an admiring chuckle from the Dowager, who had put on her best purple to come and inspect him. He was gracious enough to make Tom Branson’s acquaintance without alluding to the well-known story of his unusual social trajectory, although he dwelt on the beauties of the Irish accent enough to make sure they all knew that he’d noticed it. Thomas caught the Duke’s eyes flitting across Branson’s wide shoulders once or twice as well.

Good luck with that, Thomas thought coldly. You’ll get a flat nose if you make a pass at him, Duke or no. He contemplated trying to arrange such a situation for a moment, before dismissing it reluctantly. He didn’t have Miss O’Brien’s finesse.

After the ladies had departed, Thomas paused in the doorway, looking back, and had the pleasure of listening to the Duke try to coax Tom into trying a cigar.

“Oh no, old chap, you don’t suck in on it like a cigarette. You puff it gently, I’ll show you. Now, you must at least try it…”

Lord Grantham also found some entertainment in the proceedings, thinking that if the Duke could teach Tom how to enjoy a cigar with his father-in-law of an evening, then at least the man’s life wasn’t a complete waste. Thomas left to attend the ladies, knowing full well that the Duke just wanted to watch the winsome Irishman put something long and cylindrical into his mouth.

Whatever keeps him away from Jimmy, he thought.

But when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies at the close of the evening, there was no doubt that the Duke took another look at the blond young footman. He paused near him, before joining Lady Mary by the fire.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” He asked in his winning way. Jimmy blinked a little, startled at this direct notice.

“I am, your Grace.” He managed.

“It’s a lovely old house, isn’t it, uhm…?”

“James, your Grace.”

“James.” The Duke fairly purred. He glanced over at Thomas as if to say “remember when you were young, and I found you worthy of my attentions?” But rather than the jealous darts he expected, the look on Thomas’s face was one of sick fear. Thomas redirected his eyes straight ahead as quickly as he could, but it was quite too late. The Duke had registered the situation instantly, and a wicked delight filled him. There was nothing he liked more than hunting in the country.

He left Jimmy and moved to Lady Mary with a smile, and she faced him with the wariness of a woman remembering a man who had impressed her years ago, before she’d loved for real, and lost in the most agonizing way possible. The Duke was a mere carnival trinket to her now, and he may have sensed it. But he was also aware that his title was still desirable, his person was still smooth and urbane, and women still respond to flattery and attention, if skillfully applied.

Only at the end of the evening did the Duke find himself in the vicinity of Thomas, and deign to make a little dig as he placed his empty tumbler on the tray in the under-butler’s hands.

“I say, you’re living comfortably, aren’t you? Getting a bit thick in the middle are we?” The Duke asked him. Thomas took the tumbler with a courteous dip of the head and replied, “Indeed. But your Grace is no thicker,” and gave a pointed glance at the Duke’s hair.

He received a long stare for that jibe, while the Duke looked as though he were tasting his own teeth. Then he turned his royal head back to where Jimmy stood alertly by the door.

“Charming staff,” he said casually. “I may have to commit the ultimate faux pas against Lord Grantham, and steal one of his servants away.”

Thomas felt the blood drain from his face, and he could see the Duke note his change of color. Then the Duke made his ever-graceful apologies to the Crawley family, and retired for the night, giving James another friendly smile on his way out the door.

“Mwell,” said the Dowager, as soon as the Duke was out of hearing. “I suppose he wears well, if nothing else.”

Lady Edith gave one of those upside-down smiles that usually accompanied a rather unpleasant remark, but all she said to her sister was, “You could still be a Duchess, for what it is worth.”

Mary sank with graceful weariness into a chair and played with her long, jet necklace. “But what is it worth,” she said in a low voice; it did not really sound like a question.

Tom Branson leaned over to her and whispered, “Noo-thin.” She gave him a wry smile.

That night, in the stairwell leading up to the servants’ quarters, Thomas pulled Jimmy back a bit from the others and they paused on the landing.

“Stay clear of the Duke,” Thomas said bluntly.

Jimmy was affronted. “What d’ye mean—“

Thomas gripped Jimmy’s arm, “Listen to me. You stay out of his path. He’s not what you think, and you don’t be smiling at him or—“

Jimmy ripped his arm loose, turning red in the face. “You haven’t changed me that much!” he practically spat, and charged up the stairs with blood in his eye. Down the hall he went full-bore, and into his room with a ringing door slam made other doors open as people peeked out to see who was having the tantrum.

Thomas went past Jimmy’s door as if the flare-up was no concern of his, and went to his own room. He waited after lights-out for Jimmy to come to him, but of course, Jimmy did not come.

In his own room, Jimmy was still wide awake and pacing. Clearly Thomas thought that just because he… because Jimmy had allowed him to… because he had done those things with Thomas that he was eager enough to do those things with anyone.  
As if I’d let anyone else do such things, Jimmy thought, seething with a burning, misunderstood feeling, and it took him some time to come to the sobering realization that the feeling was shame. He had not been ashamed of letting Thomas have such freedom with him. But now he was ashamed… ashamed that having done so, he’d apparently become something low in his lover’s eyes.

The enormity of that made him stop pacing and sink down to sit on his bed. He loved me till he had me, Jimmy thought. His stomach began to ache.

When Thomas finally could stand it no longer, he pulled on his robe and went to Jimmy’s room. Opening the door, he found the younger man sitting blankly on his bed and staring at nothing with tears streaking down his cheeks. When he raised his eyes to Thomas, the hurt and resentment there nearly brought the other man to his knees.

“No, no—“ Thomas whispered, taking Jimmy’s face in his hands and kissing the damp trails. “No, no, you don’t understand…”  
Jimmy said nothing, and Thomas crawled into the bed and pulled Jimmy into his arms. There was no resistance, but no response either. He squeezed Jimmy close and petted his hair.

“It’s just that… I don’t trust him. It’s him I don’t trust.” Thomas said.

Jimmy silently put his face in Thomas’s neck and let himself be petted to sleep, and they spent an unusually chaste night in each other’s arms. When he felt Jimmy’s breathing get even and slow, Thomas whispered, “I love you, Jimmy Kent,” very softly. “I never loved anything like I love you.”

 

In the morning, the Duke began his campaigns. One was to win Lady Mary, and he was tactful enough not to try to woo her romantically, but instead to entertain her with witticisms and anecdotes, dropping names of glittering royalty and celebrities of the English and French court. A glimpse of them after breakfast walking amiably—not arm in arm, of course, but in a friendly and leisurely fashion—across the grounds was enough to display his powers of pleasing to the casual onlooker.

The other campaign was to woo Jimmy. This was more direct.

First, the Duke sent off his valet on the morning train, explaining to Lord Grantham that he’d gotten word by telephone that morning that his valet’s mother was quite ill, and he was so sorry to prevail upon his Lordship’s hospitality in such a manner once again, but what could one do, one had a responsibility to one’s servants? This, at least, put him in an aspect that Lord Grantham could view with complaisance. Nothing showed breeding like a regard for one’s dependents, he mused later, in the library.

Thomas entered with tea.

“Your Lordship,” he murmured, handing over a cup with practiced grace. Then he poured another cup. “Mr. Branson?” He offered, and Robert turned, startled. He hadn’t realized Branson was even in the library. He seemed to just appear, back in the corner by the French books again.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were here.” was all his Lordship could think to say as Tom Branson ambled forward with a little smile on his face.

“You seemed deep in thought, and I didn’t want to disturb you,” said Branson, taking a cup of tea.

Lord Grantham turned back to Thomas. “Barrow, I almost forgot. The Duke’s valet has had to leave, and he’ll need someone for this evening. He asked that James attend him, will you let James know?”

Thomas stood so still that both men regarded him curiously. He swallowed.

“I can attend his Grace, your Lordship.”

“Oh, no, there’s no need for that, you have more duties now,” Lord Grantham said kindly. Thomas’s eyes betrayed his panic as he looked long at Tom Branson.

“I believe Jimmy’s attending Mr. Branson tonight, your Lordship,” Thomas said, in a truly desperate ploy. Of course, he could always claim that he’d simply been misinformed.

Branson hesitated. Barrow was getting pretty bold, but there didn’t seem to be any malice about it. It seemed to Tom Branson that if he played along, he might finally find out what sort of shenanigans were up. Having once been a servant himself, he had a certain sympathy for… shenanigans.

“I’m not letting you turn me into a fop,” he warned Robert good-humoredly, “but it would be nice to have some help tonight. I felt a little unbuttoned last night, and we are dining with a Duke.”

Lord Grantham sat back in pleased surprised. Tom was letting a valet help him, and smoking cigars, and reading French books… well, well. He looked at his son-in-law again. Perhaps his mother, Lady Violet, was right. Something might be “made of him,” as the Dowager once put it.

“I see! Well. Well, then, of course, you may attend the Duke, and James will attend Mr. Branson.” And Robert drank his tea with added gusto. “Do tell Carson,” he added, as Barrow stiffly walked away.

James looked a little sulky that evening at dressing the former chauffeur, but Tom jollied him along well enough. “If ye can make me look good, you’ve a future for sure,” he joked, and Jimmy managed a little smile as he brushed down the material over Bransons’s shoulders.

The strain in that room, however, was mild compared to the chill in the Duke’s quarters when he rang the bell and Thomas appeared to dress him for dinner.

“Oh dear,” said the Duke flatly, after a very pointed pause. “There seems to have been some sort of miscommunication.”

“Mr. Carson didn’t feel that James was quite experienced enough, your Grace, to suit your needs,” Thomas said, barely managing to control his sneer as he held out his arms to receive the Duke’s smoking jacket.

The two combatants locked eyes as the Duke slid the silky material off his shoulders.

“You, however, seem over-qualified,” the Duke said, with a lift of his eyebrows. Thomas went about procedure with no answer but an expressive glance from his blue eyes. He was willing to dress the Duke in silence.

“I hope you aren’t feeling nostalgic for times gone by,” the Duke added, allowing Thomas to button up his shirt.

“Not at all, your Grace. We all have to move on.”

“And what new opportunities do you think are looming on your horizon, I wonder?” The Duke asked silkily. “I seem to remember an ambitious young man who expected only the best things in life.”

Thomas paused, and then a smile grew on his face as he helped the Duke into his dinner jacket.

“I’ve found the best thing in life.” He said, dropping the pretense, and speaking as one man might speak to another, eye to eye.

They stared each other down.

“Have you,” said the Duke quietly.

Had Thomas shut his mouth then and there, the flames might have died down again without burning anyone. But shutting his mouth when he was angry was not always a reliable item on Thomas’s list of virtues.

“Better than anything I have ever had.” Thomas said deliberately. The Duke turned coolly away, let Thomas run a final brush over his garments, and then walked to the door.

“I’ll have to see for myself if it’s the best,” he said to Thomas, and then exited the room, leaving Thomas with a slowly sinking feeling of true dread. He had just turned Jimmy into a moving target.


	6. Jimmy and the Duke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Jimmy are in peril when the Duke sets his sights on Jimmy.

As the family gathered in the sitting room to await the call to dinner, Thomas was more anxious than he’d ever been. For only the third time in his life, his anxiety was not for himself. The first time had been on behalf of a wounded young soldier, and the ending there had been tragic indeed. The second time had been during the hours Lady Sybil was in labor, and the entire staff knew that the doctors were arguing. The ending to that evening had been equally ghastly. Thomas took this as proof that when he felt anxious, it was not without reason. Now he was sick at his stomach with alarm. He attended his duties assiduously, but at all times he was aware of the exact location of Jimmy, and his proximity to the Duke.

The Duke, enjoying the silent panic he was creating, positioned himself so that he was facing Lady Mary, and Jimmy was exactly beyond her, so that he could speak to the lady, and be facing the young footman at the same time. Thomas could not but be aware that this was deliberate. The Duke finished his cocktail and departed for a moment to stroll toward Jimmy. Thomas was on the other side of the room and could only watch with a roiling stomach as the Duke drifted nearer.

“James, isn’t it?” The Duke asked, setting down his empty glass.

“Your Grace?” Jimmy replied attentively.

“Tell me, where were you before you came to Downton? You look rather familiar,” the Duke asked easily.

“With the Dowager Lady Anstruther, your Grace,” Jimmy replied.

The Duke gave a ripple of light laughter, “Oh my. I’ve a story to tell that you will appreciate,” he said with a winsome smile, and then lowered his voice. “Catch me later, I can’t tell it in front of the ladies,” and with a knowing look, he drifted away again. As simple as that, the bait was set. Jimmy was left wondering, both at the Duke and at Thomas’s icy stare from across the room.

Really, he was unreasonably jealous, Jimmy thought. He doesn’t own me, he told himself, although something inside him felt that this was a lie.

Carson appeared in the doorway to announce dinner, and the family drifted gracefully into couples, the Duke taking Mary’s arm, Lord and Lady Grantham together, Tom Branson falling in beside Edith. The Dowager was not with them tonight. The six entered the dining room, attended by Carson, Thomas, Alfred, and Jimmy.

When Jimmy bent over the Duke to offer the first course, the latter made sure to raise his eyes briefly to Thomas. “Irresistible,” he said, and gave Jimmy a friendly glance as he helped himself to the fish. “I compliment you on your cook,” the Duke added to Lord Grantham, who inclined his head, his ego admittedly gratified.

Thomas seriously contemplated poisoning the Duke during the course of the evening. He watched the Duke lightly entertaining Lady Mary, who seemed actually to thaw a little. Imagine if that bastard actually married into the family, Thomas suddenly thought with horror. It would be the end of the world. We’d have to leave, or Jimmy would fall prey, either seduced or more likely blackmailed into a liaison that would do him emotional damage of the worst sort.

That he himself was the one who had opened that door, waking Jimmy up to a world in himself he had apparently not been aware of, Thomas tried not to contemplate. Love should be its own excuse. What the Duke had in mind was not love.

Knowing he could not stalk the Duke all evening to protect Jimmy, Thomas settled for stalking Jimmy all evening, in hopes of keeping him from any lonely meeting with the Duke. But he could only watch helplessly as the Duke made his excuses around midnight, pausing to extract a smiling promise from Lady Mary that she should show him the gardens in the morning, and then made his way toward the grand staircase, a path that took him directly past Jimmy. The Duke gave Jimmy a glance and then flicked his eyes up toward the gallery where the bedrooms were. It was a clear invitation to come up and “talk.”

Thomas could remember when that look had been directed at him. And whether your interest was prurient or merely the fascination a royal personage could awaken in most of the English population, the result was usually that if a handsome young Duke wanted to talk to one, one found oneself compelled to place oneself at his Grace’s disposal. He saw Jimmy’s gaze follow the Duke as he left and knew that if nothing else, curiosity would compel him to tap on that door within the next hour, to see if he could be service. And the resentful glance Jimmy sent at him, Thomas, made it clear that Jimmy was still smarting under the insult he felt that Thomas had handed him. Thomas cursed himself for playing right into the Duke’s hands, and allowing his panic to sow dissension between them.

As soon as he could, Thomas gathered up the discarded china, took it to the scullery, and then, rather than return to see if Carson needed him, he made his way quickly up to the gallery to the Duke’s room. He opened the door to find the Duke already undressed, and lounging by the fire in dark silk nightclothes, with a little smile on his face.

“It’s quite alright,” the Duke said lightly, coming to block him from entering further into the room. “I’ve managed without you. Don’t let me keep you from your other duties.” He gestured Thomas back toward the door with a smile, and Thomas had no choice but to turn and go. They gave each other long looks, Thomas’s warning, the Duke’s mocking, and then Thomas left in silence.

Closing the door behind him, Thomas took a few steps down the gallery, and then found a place to lurk where he could observe unseen. He watched as Tom Branson retired to his room for the night, and Jimmy entered shortly after to finish his evening of valeting. Thomas glanced around quickly to see if Carson would catch him, and then made his way along the gallery to wait outside Branson’s door.

Shortly, Jimmy emerged, and Thomas was chagrined to see him head right, toward the Duke’s, and not left, toward the servants staircase. He lunged forward, grabbed Jimmy by the wrist, and pulled him back into Branson’s room.

Tom Branson, who was in his pajamas and about to climb into his bed, watched in astonishment as the two surged into his room, and Thomas slammed Jimmy up against the wall.

“You don’t let him touch you!” Thomas hissed, pinning the smaller man and holding his wrists in a painful grip.

Horrified, Jimmy struggled to break free but could not. Dimly it occurred to him that Thomas would have won that arm wrestling match easily, even if Jimmy had put up a struggle. He was strong, and at the moment, he seemed maddened. Jimmy stared at Thomas, who looked quite unlike himself. His throat seemed to swell, his face was red, and his eyes seemed oddly translucent and icy.

“You don’t touch him and you don’t let him touch you. You don’t let him touch you!” Thomas repeated hoarsely, and Jimmy wanted to die of mortification. Branson, who had come forward with the assurance of a man who had broken up many a barroom brawl in his native Ireland, had frozen some feet away, his eyes registering a dawning comprehension of the implications of Thomas’s words, and the desperation behind them.

So that’s how it is, his gaze said plainly as it took them both in, and Jimmy turned his face away, not wanting anyone to ever look at him again. Thomas still held him, and Branson recovered himself enough to step forward and intervene.

“Ye’ve got to let him go. Ye’ve got to let him go,” he repeated, taking Thomas by the shoulders and urging him to step back.

Thomas released Jimmy, still staring at his face, trying to convey the importance of this single thought: do not let him touch you. Jimmy, flushed and trembling with fright and shame, straightened his clothing and gave Thomas a hateful glare. Then he left the room without a word.

Thomas would have followed, but Branson held onto him. “No. Let him go. Calm down.” Finally Thomas stilled enough that Branson carefully released his shoulders, and the two just looked at each other for a moment. Thomas was fairly panting, and his eyes still looked as if the color had drained from them.

“You don’t know the Duke,” Thomas managed, and Branson gave a careful nod.

“Alright,” was all he said, “but don’t do anything that’ll land you in prison.”

Thomas took a deep breath and nodded acquiescence. Then they both merely stood for bit, unsure of what to do next.

In the gallery, Jimmy took a moment to compose himself. His wrists were burning where Thomas’s grip had reddened the skin, and his face was hot. Then he made his way to the room where the Duke awaited him.

Stepping into the well-lit room with the roaring fire was calming, and Jimmy was happy to close the door behind him, shutting out Thomas and his inexplicable rage.

The Duke was helping himself to a drink from the excellent service in his room. He turned to see Jimmy and his face lit up pleasantly.

“Ah, there you are. Here, have a drink with me. They say it isn’t the thing, but my valet is only cheerful if I ply him with whiskey, and I’ve rather gotten into the habit now,” the Duke said, and handed Jimmy a glass with a dollop of amber in it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Jimmy said, feeling as though he frankly deserved a nerve-steadying drink after that scene with Thomas. He accepted the drink, and the Duke chuckled. “The most sour fellow, my valet. Never cracks a smile at all, really, I think he’s a German spy!”

Jimmy smiled appreciatively, not sure of what to say.

“I don’t think he’s going to stay with me, in fact,” the Duke said, and turned to amble over to the fire, and recline gracefully against the mantle.

Jimmy swallowed his drink and felt immediately better with the warmth in his stomach.

“I believe he’s going to return home to care for his ailing mother. I’ll be needing a new valet soon.” The Duke sighed, and then looked over at Jimmy. “I don’t suppose you have any experience?” He asked.

My God, thought Jimmy. Valet to a Duke. Imagine that… suddenly he wondered if this was really what Thomas was worried about… that Jimmy would leave Downton. But why that specific warning?

“I do, your Grace,” Jimmy stammered, and then collected himself. “I do, although not—“ he gestured as if to say “Not with a Duke.”

The Duke shrugged. “It’s not that different, really,” he said with becoming modesty. “Only when I’m in Monte Carlo do I really worry about having everything just so. I have a favorite pair of cufflinks that – oh let me show you. They’re simply marvelous.”

The Duke went to his dresser and retrieved a small box, and Jimmy followed him over. The box was duly opened, and Jimmy gazed in at the glittering cufflinks nestled inside.

“Very nice, your Grace,” he said, and then looked up to realize how close the Duke was standing, and how warmly he was looking down at Jimmy. Suddenly Jimmy realized how similar that look was to the one Thomas often gave him. He understood the import immediately, and straightened slowly.

Something was different, though. Thomas’s eyes were as cold as a snake’s if you didn’t know him well, but knowing him as Jimmy did, the warmth was there if you knew how to find it. The Duke, by contrast, had large hazel eyes that looked warmly upon everyone. It occurred to Jimmy with a flash of rare insight that if cold eyes can hide a warm heart, it was equally possible that warm eyes can hide a cold one.

Before Jimmy even had time to react to this thought, he realized that the Duke was reaching one hand out to caress his neck. “Don’t let him touch you,” Thomas’s voice sounded in his head as clearly as if he were in the room with them. Startled, Jimmy took several steps back, gaping at the hand that had come so close.

“Oh dear,” said the Duke, putting down the box and giving Jimmy a reassuring smile. “I’ve startled you.”

Jimmy retreated to the sideboard in silence, and put down his empty tumbler. He gave the Duke a cornered look. He wasn’t sure at all what to say or do.

The Duke followed him slowly, with the look of a man who is enjoying himself.

“It’s just that most of what I’d need you for doesn’t involve those kinds of skills. Valeting, I mean. Cufflinks and whatnot. It’s your companionship that would be most valuable to me, to be honest,” the Duke purred. “I travel so much, to have a valet who understands my needs and is…. responsive… enjoys his job… it would be such a comfort. And I think you would enjoy it,” he continued, coming closer as Jimmy backed uneasily away.

Then they both paused. The Duke seemed to be waiting, and Jimmy had no idea how to extricate himself gracefully. The Duke took advantage of his hesitation.

“Jimmy. Come here.” It was a direct command, softened by that smile the Duke employed so well. He opened his arms. “Help me.”

Jimmy eased himself toward the door. “If there’s nothing more, your Grace—“ he uttered meaninglessly, and the Duke’s smile faded.

“You disappoint me, Jimmy.” He stepped forward to stop the young man, and his seductive manner changed to one more businesslike. “I’m sure you aren’t as naïve as you pretend to be. I would hate to think you’re being rude.”

Jimmy wavered near the door. To be accused of being rude to a Duke is no small matter to a servant.

“No, your Grace, I don’t mean to be rude,” he began.

“You know, I am surprised.” The Duke interrupted. “Thomas assured me that you knew about my needs and would be most eager to make me comfortable.”

Jimmy looked confused. The other man continued.

“He’s the one who recommended that I speak to you tonight. He promised me that, how did he say it, I wouldn’t be disappointed in you.”

Jimmy looked down at the red, chaffed skin on his wrists and calm overtook him. He looked the Duke in the eye. “Thomas would never say that,” he said with quiet assurance, and with that, he bowed and left the room. The Duke stared after him with darkening eyes. This would not stand.

Jimmy entered the gallery and ran smack into the arms of Thomas, who had obviously been standing anguished watch outside the door. Thomas gripped him in relief for a moment, and then nudged him gently toward the staircase. “Get to my room,” he whispered. Jimmy had lost all desire to disobey Thomas, and headed instantly for the stairs.

The Duke emerged from his doorway and Thomas turned to him with a bright look of triumph on his face.  
“Yes, your Grace,” he said loudly, “May I help?”

The Duke heard another door behind him open, and turned to see Branson stepping into the gallery as well, tying a robe over his nightclothes.

“Is there a problem?” Branson asked pointedly.

Both Thomas and Branson pinned the Duke with accusing eyes. He uttered a polite nothing and retreated back into his room. Thomas stood staring at his door a minute, fists clenched, and considered going in there and just killing the bastard. Strangle him easy, he thought, remembering a time the Duke had very much enjoyed Thomas’s hands upon him. You wouldn’t like it this time, Charlie, he thought.

Branson gave Thomas a warning shake of the head. “Just go,” he whispered, and Thomas, unable to show gratitude except by obedience, clenched his teeth and turned away, hastening up to his room to comfort Jimmy, who was an uneasy state.

After the lights were out, and everyone settled safely, Thomas and Jimmy barricaded themselves into Thomas’s room, and wrapped themselves around each other tightly.

“I told you,” scolded Thomas in broken whispers, kissing Jimmy’s wrists where he’d chafed the skin, and then giving the younger man a shake, and then kissing him again in a fever of mingled relief and remorse. “I told you, I told you. You listen to me now, do ye hear?” He berated Jimmy lovingly, stopping to rain kisses on Jimmy’s lips, smothering any answer. “You do what your Thomas says,” he breathed, gathering Jimmy in tighter yet, and finally rolling over on top of him as if he didn’t feel safe unless Jimmy was completely pinned.

Jimmy lay luxuriously beneath him and allowed the adoring abuse with a smile. “Yes! I hear you.”

“From now on!” Thomas hissed in his ear as he slid his legs between Jimmy’s, “from now on you listen to me.”

“Always,” Jimmy promised, anticipating Thomas’s hands as they slid roughly down his sides.

 

At daybreak, Jimmy slipped back to his room under orders from Thomas to stay in bed and claim to be sick. At all costs, Thomas wanted Jimmy out of sight until he could think of a way to secure his safety from the Duke. At breakfast, he reported to Carson that he had heard Jimmy vomiting in the night, and had instructed the footman to remain in bed.

Mrs. Hughes looked concerned, “Did he have a fever?” She asked, and Thomas indicated that he might have, perhaps, a touch.

“I’ll go and check on him after breakfast,” Mrs. Hughes promised, and Thomas knew that this gambit would only be good for about 12 hours. After 12 hours, the ill servant is either suspected of malingering, or the doctor is summoned.

Attending the upstairs breakfast, Thomas received a cold stare from the Duke, and then to his alarm, the blasted fellow turned to Lord Grantham and said, “I wonder if I might have a word with you later today about a… an issue that is troubling me.”

Lord Grantham emerged from behind his newspaper. “Certainly. Would you like to discuss it now?”

“Oh, no,” the Duke smiled. “We mustn’t bore the ladies, and I’ve been promised a turn in your beautiful gardens,” he said, with a loving glance toward Lady Mary, who gave a slightly nervous smile.

“Very well, find me when you feel it’s time,” Lord Grantham said, and returned to his paper. The Duke shot Thomas another look as if to say, “now you know how much time you have left before I begin the unraveling of your life.”

An hour later, Thomas stood outside the library, nervously bolstering his courage. Lord Grantham was the library, alone. The Duke was outside with Lady Mary. Jimmy was upstairs hiding in his room, and Mrs. Hughes was undoubtedly up there feeling his forehead and asking him questions, and really, they had only bought themselves a little time. What the Duke intended, Thomas could not say for certain, but he was most likely going to tell Lord Grantham something that would either constitute an allegation against himself, or against Jimmy.

Thomas had wracked his brains trying to think of a way to thwart the Duke and he had finally come to the unhappy conclusion that he was going to have to do something that he had made it a lifelong policy never to do: he was going to place his trust in someone, and that someone must be Lord Grantham.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that over the last ten years, Lord and Lady Grantham had played him more than fair, had recommended him for manager of Downton during its brief sojourn as a convalescent hospital, had stood by him in the dark days after Jimmy’s first panicked reaction to his—as Carson would say—criminal blandishments. Carsons’ opinion was that Thomas should be horsewhipped. Lord Grantham, instead, had protected him. And there was simply no one else to turn to. Thomas steeled himself for the worst, and entered the library.

“Yes, Barrow?” Lord Grantham looked up at Thomas, and then put down his pen with a look of concern. “Is there a problem?”

Thomas was unsure how to begin, and settled for “Yes, your Lordship. It’s… about the Duke.”

Robert’s eyes gained a knowing gleam. Ah, he thought, whatever the Duke is about to complain about, Barrow knows what it is and is hoping to stave off the blow. For once, he was actually going to be informed what was going on in his own household without having to drag it out of someone. He was rather looking forward to such a refreshing development.

“Well, let’s hear it,” Lord Grantham said, mildly amused.

Thomas considered the choice of words available to him, and finally began thusly:

“Do you remember about a year ago or more, your Lordship, when I did something that… upset James?”

Lord Grantham tried not to chuckle. A coy choice of words indeed, “Yes, Barrow, I remember when you … upset James.” Then he realized that James, Carson reported, was sick in bed. He sighed, “Oh, Barrow, you didn’t upset James again, did you?”

“No, your Lordship… it was the Duke,” Thomas said, knowing he was now past the point of any return. “The Duke upset James last night.”

Lord Grantham grew serious indeed. Indignation was very close to the surface.

“My God. Are you sure? That’s a very serious accusation, Thomas,” he said, reverting to past form.

“The Duke has … upset footmen before,” Thomas said meaningfully.

Lord Grantham sat back, taking this in. “Has he?”

“He has.”

“And… and has he upset you?” Lord Grantham ventured, and Thomas shifted uncomfortably.

“Does your Lordship recall the summer we spent in London when Lady Edith came out?”

Grantham nodded.

“The Duke was… upsetting me then.” Thomas finished lamely.

“I see.” Lord Grantham gave him an angry look. “Why didn’t you report it to me if he was … upsetting you?"

Thomas rather forgot himself for a moment and smiled. “I wasn’t that upset about it,” he admitted, and Lord Grantham winced and looked away as if he’d had quite enough information on the subject.

“Right. Yes. I see.” He rapped out briskly, and squinted out the window at the lawns, where the Duke and Lady Mary were returning to the house. And this is the man who wants to marry my daughter. What little incentive he had to wish for the match vanished utterly. He turned back to Thomas and stood.

“I thank you for your candor, Barrow. I’ll keep your information in mind. Do tell Carson that James should remain in his room until further notice… I won’t have my footmen… upset.”

“Thank you, your Lordship,” Thomas said, and for the first time felt as though perhaps trusting one’s fellow man was not always doomed to disaster. Although, of course, it was too soon to tell. He departed briskly, pausing to give way and bow as Lady Cora entered the library. She noted the preoccupied look on his face, however, and when he was gone, turned a reproachful gaze to her husband.

“I do hope you didn’t just upset Barrow,” she murmured, and was perplexed at the horrified look with which Robert assured her that he had certainly NEVER ... upset Barrow.


	7. Robert vs The Duke

The Duke returned to the house in a most unpleasant mood. He had maneuvered Lady Mary into the rose garden and dropped delicate hints about his availability. She had responded with distant lamentations about her inconsolability. He had responded with abstract musings on the value of title. She had acknowledged them second only to the sadly banal concerns of fiscal viability. He had sent one last parry on the consoling effects of travel, and she had returned it with a treatise on the superiority of true love.

Politely, he escorted her back to the house and hoped to himself that on her next hunt, the horse rolled over and broke her neck. She kindly received his best wishes with the private reflection that his hair would look much better on fire. They smiled at each other and parted in the entryway.

Having failed in bid number one, the Duke was determined that at least, he would prevail on bid number two. Oh, he didn’t want Jimmy, no. Clearly the young fool was too in love with his Thomas, just as Mary was still in love with her dear departed Matthew, for either of them to see the value of what he was offering. If there was one thing the Duke did not appreciate, it was when he was not appreciated.

No, bid number two was merely the destruction of Thomas. Really, he should have done it long ago.

He accosted Lord Grantham in the library, who had been sitting for some while in a state of vacillation between amusement and disgust. Buggery had always been a topic of amusement and disgust to him. As it didn’t involve the defilement of women, he was able to dismiss it with a certain lofty bemusement. And he knew that several men who enjoyed buggery were still able to play cricket, go to war, and even ride with the hounds, although he wondered how they could sit on a horse after a rousing evening of buggery. Most women stopped appearing at breakfast as soon as they were married, so if marital sex exhausted a woman too much for breakfast, one would think buggery would wipe you out for the rest of the day. But apparently not. Lord Grantham sighed. Perhaps it was better not to ponder it too much.

He had just completed the sigh when the Duke entered the library and Robert thought, Ah, here’s the Royal Bugger himself. He stood to greet his guest.

“Lord Grantham, there you are, no, no tea for me, thank you. I wanted to bring a matter to your attention that… well… I didn’t think I could, in good conscience, let go unremarked—“ and the Duke spoke fluently for some time on the matter of conscience and duty as he worked his way up to the actual topic.

Robert appeared to listen attentively, but mostly he was wondering whether the Duke liked to be the bugger-er or the bugger-ee. He supposed he could ask Barrow (who clearly would know) but then he ran the risk of embarrassing his employee, or worse: finding that the employee was not at all embarrassed, and could explain in searing detail acts that might paint a mental picture in Robert’s head that he could never quite banish again.

“-- and I’m afraid Barrow quite forgot himself. He was very candid about the intent of his maneuver, and it was with some difficulty that I persuaded him to leave my chambers. I can only imagine the possibility that this has occurred before and perhaps your guests have been too delicate in their sensibilities to bring this to your Lordship’s notice…” the Duke trailed off suggestively.

There was a silence. The Duke tipped his head inquisitively, rather non-plussed at Lord Grantham’s lack of initial response.

Lord Grantham mused for a minute, wondering why, if the Duke had approached James, it was Thomas he was attempting to implicate. Whatever the reason, Lord Grantham had no intention of taking the Duke’s word for anything. He’d get to the bottom of it (so to speak) later. Coming to that decision, he nodded. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You may be sure I will address it.”

They regarded each other in silence. The Duke raised his eyebrows, and seemed to feel that more should be forthcoming.

Lord Grantham felt his expectation. “But are you quite certain—“

“—yes, very,” the Duke interjected at once.

“—that you wouldn’t like some tea?” Robert finished blandly. “I think it’s still hot.”

There was another long silence. The Duke tasted his teeth for a moment.

Lord Grantham poured himself another cup and asked, “Did you have anything to ask me regarding Lady Mary?”

The Duke blinked rapidly, and then forced a smile. “It seems she’s inconsolable.”

Lord Grantham nodded wistfully. “Well. We all are, regarding Matthew.”

He turned and stared out at the lawn, and thought, I wish this fellow would go away.

The Duke stood in growing ire at Lord Grantham’s lack of response. Finally he stammered, “I – I say… I say, it doesn’t seem to me that you’ve absorbed the enormity of what I have just revealed. One of your employees made a criminal attack on my person, under your roof.”

Lord Grantham, irritated now, struggled against the urge to ask the Duke whether he’d enjoyed every sweaty minute of it. Even a broke Duke had connections, and it wouldn’t do to make an enemy of him. He nodded. “Yes. Yes, I see. Very serious.” He agreed.

Pause.

“I’d like to be assured,” the Duke resumed, “that steps will be taken.”

“What sort of steps?” Robert asked slowly, wishing now for something rather stronger than tea. “I suppose you want him fired straight away and sent off without a reference.” His calm seemed to infuriate the Duke.

“No, not at all. Not at all. A man who steals from his employer’s larder deserves to be fired without a reference. A man who mounts a criminal assault upon a Duke deserves the gallows.” The Duke replied, and turned and left the library.

Robert stared after him, wide-eyed. Now it was definitely time for something stronger than tea.

The Duke exited the library, passed Tom Branson without a glance, and went to the telephone in the entry-way. Mr. Carson appeared to ask whether his Grace would not like the butler to do the duty of placing a call for him, but the Duke ignored him with a sort of red-faced calm, picked up the phone, and addressed the operator. “Yes. Do connect with the police and tell them that there has been an attack of a criminal nature upon the person of the Duke of Crowborough, and that they must come to Lord Grantham’s estate of Downton Abbey immediately.” He said.

Carson turned grey and staggered backward. Lady Edith, just descending the stairs, came up to steady the butler and said in her caroling voice, “What’s going on?”

“Yes, I said an attack of a criminal nature upon my person. Yes, I AM the Duke of Crowborough.” He said, and hung up the receiver.

Lady Mary appeared at the top of the stairs, just pulling her white gloves off delicately, one finger at a time. “What’s happened?” she asked, and Lady Edith turned to her in amazement.

“Did you attack the Duke in the garden?” She asked in bewilderment.

Mary blinked in astonishment. “No, I don’t think so.”

The Duke shot them both contemptuous glares and turned to poor Carson, whose face looked like he’d died five minutes ago.

“When the police arrive, I shall be in my chambers. Do notify me.” And he sauntered up the stairs past Lady Mary, into the gallery, and into his room.

Lady Mary turned back to Lady Edith. “I never laid a hand on him,” she protested.

Branson, having stood at the edge of the entry way to listen to the phone call, turned back to the library to inform Lord Grantham that the Duke had just called for the police, and he feared that the man may be prepared to implicate James in some nefarious accusation.

“Not James, Thomas,” Robert said, brushing by. He halted for a moment and looked back, registering belatedly that Branson clearly knew more about the affair than he probably should, but then shrugged and turned back to the entry way.

“Carson,” he said authoritatively, striding forward. “I want the servants to gather in the servants hall, except for yourself. Place Mrs. Hughes in charge and inform them that they are not to leave the hall. Mary,” he turned to his daughter, “you and Edith join your mother in the sitting room and please remain there. Tom—“ he turned to see Barrow emerging from the servants staircase, and Robert barked at Branson, “Take Barrow into the library and stay there.”

Then he turned and went to the front door to await the police alone. What exactly he meant by that militaristic surge of organization, he was not sure. He only knew that he didn’t want the women or the servants hearing anything about any of it.

He heard a car pull up and braced himself to meet the police. Then he threw open his doors determinedly, only to meet with an even more off-putting force: Lady Violet.

“Oh my.” She said, clutching the brooch at her throat. “You looked as if you should be stepping out onto a balcony to calm the populace.”

Robert nearly fell back, but a glance beyond her stiffened his resolve. The police were approaching.

“There is a crisis,” he informed her as politely as possible. “Would you be so good as to go to the sitting room and help Cora keep the girls calm?”

“MMmm…” Lady Violet hummed as she tottered past him, leaning on her walking stick. Looking behind her, she saw that she was unobserved, and slipped into the library instead, knowing from long experience that gentlemen always discussed the most interesting things in the library, while the women were left to stew over their embroidery in the sitting room. She made herself comfortable on the high-backed red sofa. Looking around, she noted that the room seemed to be empty.

On the front porch, two police cars pulled up, and Robert watched with a sinking stomach as 8 uniformed police officers exited briskly, and came to the door.

“Begging your pardon, your Lordship,” spoke the Chief of Police, identifiable by his magnificent moustache, “we’ve had an urgent call from the Duke of Crowborough, claiming to need our assistance right away.”

Robert said, “Of course. Do come into the—“ he broke off, cursing himself. He would normally guide them into the library, but Thomas was in the library, and he had no intention of handing Thomas over, possibly to be hanged, without a fight. “—to the dining room.” He offered.

But the Duke had emerged from his room and was standing at the top of the stairs. It must be admitted he cut a fine figure, despite the somewhat-thinning hair. “No, Lord Grantham, I believe you directed the guilty party to the library, and that is where the police will find the villain.”

Accommodatingly, the police surged into the library, ignoring Robert’s angry “Now see here!!” Robert surged in after them. The Duke surged in after Robert.

They all came to a halt upon beholding Lady Violet, seated primly, with both wrinkled hands on the knob of her walking stick, surrounded by eight baffled policemen. She almost looked capable of swinging it like a cricket bat, thought one of the officers, who took a careful step away from her.

The Chief of Police eyed the Countess with consternation and asked the Duke, “Is this… um… the party who attempted the personal assault upon your Grace?”

“Oh my!” The Dowager Countess said, and turned to the Duke. “Someone assaulted you?” She put a pair of glasses up to her eyes and looked him over as if to find what might tempt anyone to undertake such a thing.

“No.” Said the Duke, not amused by the ludicrousness of the situation. “No, the guilty party was a male servant, and it was an attack of such a nature as we really cannot discuss in front of a lady. Lord Grantham,” he said, “please do see that Lady Violet is made comfortable in the sitting room with the rest of the women.”

Robert nearly gave in to the desire to bark at the man that Duke or no, he would not be ordered where to put his own mother in his own house, when he was saved from such rudeness by the appearance of Lady Cora, Lady Mary, and Lady Edith, who had apparently escaped the sitting room and were now enacting a lacey, feminine surge into the library.

Lady Edith, always the first to bleat out something one might not have advised, said “Why is Tom taking the motor?”

All the men lunged to the window to see Branson drive calmly by. He slowed, looked toward the window, and gave a cheerful wave. He seemed to be alone in the car.

“That’s my son-in-law, Tom Branson.” Said Robert, feeling certain that some sort of plan was afoot. “He is also the estate manager and is undoubtedly attending to some business. He’ll return shortly. Is your complaint against him?”

“Did he burn down another house,” asked Lady Violet brightly from her seat on the sofa. Several police officers turned to give her a look. “Oh, I’m sorry, disregard that,” she simpered.

“No, your Lordship,” said the Chief uncertainly, “But he hadn’t ought to drive off like that just now.”

“Well, you can question him when he returns, I’m certain,” Robert said. “If the Duke thinks Mr. Branson can shed any light on your investigation.”

“There is no need for an investigation,” the Duke spoke concisely. “I am filing a report, and I shall bring the full weight of my family to bear. The guilty party is named Thomas Barrow, and—“ he glanced around and saw to his dissatisfaction that he now had four females staring curiously at him.

For a moment, Robert agreed. “Cora, do take the girls back into the sitting room.”

Lady Mary turned to go with a shrug, but Edith stood her ground. “Why can’t we hear what’s going on? It’s not as if I’m going to turn around and write a newspaper column on it tomorrow.”

Robert’s eyes went out of focus for a moment as, in his mind’s eye, he saw the headlines: Earl’s Daughter Speaks Out on Buggery. A wave of dizziness swept over him.

“Do go along with your mother,” he ground out, and Lady Edith left with a huff.

Lady Violet, however, twisted her walking stick slightly, as if screwing it into the floor. “Well, I’m not leaving,” she informed them pleasantly, and the eight officers, Lord Grantham, and the Duke all took a mutual breath and decided to choose their battles wisely.

“I want you to arrest Thomas Barrow.” The Duke resumed. “I will detail the particulars of his felonious conduct of last night at a later date.”

The police chief turned to Robert. “Where is the man, your Lordship?”

“Italy, if he wants to blend in,” tittered Lady Violet. Several of the officers turned away quickly to peruse the walls politely for a moment.

It came to Lord Grantham that all he could do was stall, and hope that Thomas was well on his way… somewhere. “I told Carson to gather all the servants downstairs in the servants hall. Undoubtedly, Barrow is there.”

But of course, Thomas was not.

Now began the process of the police searching the house for Thomas. Over the next hour, they fanned out and stepped gingerly through the salon, the music room, the sitting room, begging the Ladies pardon, and then conducted a room by room search of the second floor.

Finding no Thomas, half of the officers remained with the family, who huddled in their respective designated spots under a sort of tacit house arrest, with only Carson and Mrs. Hughes, and her jingling key ring, accompanying the officers who now trudged up the stairs (with many a stop for breath) to inspect the servants’ quarters. She took them grudgingly to each room, including Jimmy’s – but he was downstairs, having been gathered with the others. Thomas’s room, Mrs. Hughes quietly saved till last, and would have passed it by as casually as possible, but the alert officers notified her politely that she had overlooked this room.

With dread, she and Carson glanced at each other, and stood by helplessly as the officers entered Thomas’s room.

It was empty. They stooped even to look under the bed, but there was no Thomas. Mrs. Hughes exhaled deeply, and guided the police all back down the stairs.

Empty-handed, the police gathered in the entry way. The family--having had enough of confinement--gathered with them, along with the Duke. Sixteen people filled the entryway in consternation.

“I’m sorry, Lord Grantham, but we’ll have to search the grounds as well,” the Police Chief said, and as Robert opened his mouth to speak, the front door swung wide, and they all turned as Tom Branson strode in.

“Alright, here I am.” He said defiantly. “If you’ve come to arrest me, do your worst, you Black-n-Tan loving colonialist oppressors!”

The police stared at him.

“No,” Lady Edith finally piped up, “They want to arrest Thomas. You know, Barrow, our under-butler."

“Barrow?” Tom said slowly, “Thomas Barrow?” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder, “Why, he’s on a train to London. I dropped him off myself more than half-hour ago.”

There was a general clamour as the police converged around Branson. He gestured helplessly. “Well, I didn’t know! No one told me! I was driving off to do some business for Lord Grantham, down the road there, when I came alongside our Thomas, making down the road with a bag in one hand, his hat in the other, his shirt untucked… fairly flying down the road he was—“ Branson launched into the story with gusto, and everyone unconsciously gathered around to hear him. “Running like the devil was after him! and come to think of it, I thought he looked a bit odd, for none of his clothes matched. He still had his black service pants on, and white shirt, and he must have just put a blue shirt, and then a brown jacket and hat over the lot and run right out the back” he told them, wide-eyed.

One of the officers jotted down the description on a pad of paper from his breast pocket.

“I slowed down and I said, “Thomas, what’re ye doing?” And he told me that he’d just heard from home that his poor old mother was sick and dying, and he was rushing to be at her bedside at the end. So I gave him a lift to the train station.” He finished his narrative with an innocent glance around him.

“His mother died fifteen years ago,” the Duke informed them flatly.

Robert turned to him. “How do you know that?”

All eyes turned on the Duke. There was an awkward silence, but he refused to lose his bearing. Drawing himself up, he addressed the police chief. “I suggest that you drive down to the train station immediately and see if you can apprehend him. I am quite exhausted now, and have accepted an invitation to visit the Earl of Plymouth for a week at his estate. I shall leave shortly, and monitor the progress of your investigation into my complaint from Plymouth.” He finished haughtily.

“Train’s left by now,” Branson said off-handedly. “But ye could call ahead to London, and all the stops along the way, can’t be more than… twelve or thirteen. He could get off at any of them, I suppose, unless he’s planning to make for the continent.”

“Oh, yes,” observed the Dowager, “I’m sure he could count on the French to hide him,” and Branson looked at her for a moment, sure he could see a twinkle in her eye.

The police chief motioned for the officers to make for their cars. “We’ll search the train depot, your Grace, but if he’s already on the train, I don’t know what we can do here.” The Duke did not deign to reply, only stared at him.

As the officers took their leave, Robert accompanied them out onto the porch.

“See here,” he said to the Chief in a low voice. “I think this fellow’s a bit funny. Until he files a complaint, are you required to continue this pursuit?”

The Chief looked at the doorway, and back at Lord Grantham. “We’ll look around the train depot, as I said. After that—“ his voice trailed off, and Robert nodded understandingly.

“Probably half-way to London by now,” he said fatalistically.

The Chief nodded, and the police officers were soon gathered into their respective automobiles, and drove away. Robert went back inside.

Mrs. Hughes asked Carson whether the servants were free to move about again, for they were sadly fallen behind in their work, and Carson received a nod from Lord Grantham, and so turned and nodded to Mrs. Hughes, that she might go downstairs and nod to the staff.

The Crawleys now turned to the terribly unwelcome peer. Robert spoke first.

“There’s a train to Plymouth that leaves in an hour. Carson, would you and Alfred see that the Duke is prepared for his journey to Plymouth? Both of you, together, I mean?” Robert asked pointedly. “There’s so much to be done, I doubt whether either of you alone could manage it.”

Carson nodded somberly. “And Mr. Bates can help His Grace change into his traveling attire, after which perhaps Her Ladyship can spare Anna to help see that the fire is kept up in His Grace’s chamber until the Duke’s departure. We wouldn’t want him to get cold.”

“Certainly,” Cora cooed, and so the Duke knew that he’d be accompanied by 2 or 3 servants at all times for the next hour, until he left Downton Abbey for good.

As he turned in bitter silence toward the stairs, Lady Violet said, “Do tell Lady Alberta that I send my compliments. Oh, goodness, I haven’t written Bertie in years, perhaps I should send a letter. One usually doesn’t tell Bertie too much as she’s a terrible gossip,” the Dowager smirked, “but I really do owe her a letter…” She looked after the Duke meaningfully.

He stopped and looked back at her.

“If you have time to file a complaint, I have time to write a letter,” she pointed out reasonably.

The Duke forced a smile and said, “We shall probably neither of us have time for all that.”

“Very well,” the Countess smiled back, and the Duke went up the stairs, accompanied by Carson, who stood outside his door stiffly until Alfred and Mr. Bates joined him, and the three went in together to see to his Grace’s comfortable departure.

They gathered outside to see him off in silence, and as the chauffeur drove him away, Lady Edith said, “I don’t think I like him.” They all glanced at one another and decided that this epitaph was a sufficient final commentary for the Duke.

It was an exhausted family that gathered back in the library for tea, knowing that dinner would undoubtedly be late.

As soon as they were together, and Carson had left to get the tea, Robert turned to Tom Branson. “How did you get Thomas out of the house?”

Branson smirked. “I didn’t get Thomas out of the house.”

They all looked at him in bemusement, and then Lady Violet struggled to her feet, “Oh let me,” she said, with the air of someone taking their turn in a delightful parlor game. They watched in suspense as she made her way to the corner of the small North library where the French novels were, and rapped sharply on the shelf with her walking stick.

“You can come out now,” she called, and after a moment, the shelf slid open on a center pivot point, and a pale and shaky Thomas emerged, with several cobwebs clinging to his shoulders, and hunted look in his eye.

The Crawleys rose to their feet simultaneously, mouths open in shock. Robert looked as though the world had cracked open.

Violet turned back to them and settled her hands on her walking stick with satisfaction. “I told you the Crawleys were once Catholic,” she said by way of explanation.


	8. Epilogue

Work Text:

Part 8  
Upon the Duke’s departure, Downton Abbey attempted a return to normal. Although there was a great deal of discussion about the Duke, and his suspected commonality with Barrow – a great many giggles were stifled there – Jimmy benefitted in having escaped detection. No one knew of his connection to the event except Thomas, Branson, and Lord Grantham (who would rather have been boiled in oil and stuck on a pike than discuss it.)

While the lower echelon of the staff was not exactly certain what had happened, whiffs drifted down in that mysterious manner by which servants always learn the family gossip. The exact tale was not known in full detail, but it was evident that the Duke had said something, the police had come, Mr. Barrow had escaped a mysterious threat relating to this adventure, and the whole affair was hushed with the sort of furtiveness that cast the scent of sex over it all like incense.

Thomas was probably the only man in this little world who could have glided through such a contretemps without completely losing his dignity. He wiped off the cobwebs, smoothed down his hair like a cat smoothing its fur after a scare, and carried on, his jaw working with disdain, his eyes cold as ever.

Alfred occasionally contemplated asking him, “Did you really…?” But he always lost his nerve when Barrow fixed him with “the double barrels,” as he called that gaze.

Carson’s morbid terror of controversy helped, for once, to restore normalcy. “The Duke was very disappointed that Lady Mary could not be prevailed upon,” was his pronouncement at dinner, “and rather shockingly, he attempted to cause shame and embarrassment to the family in retaliation. We shall try to consider it a measure of his dismay at being rejected.”

He fixed the staff with a stern eye. “Happily, his attempt was seen for the fallacious and calculated attack that it was. We need discuss it no further.” He finished heavily.

And no one ever mentioned it again, except whenever Mr. Carson left the room.

Thomas enjoyed a brief bout of celebrity, as the glamour of having been pursued by the police, hidden in a nook in the library, and fumed over by a Duke caused the maids and hallboys to gaze upon him as if he were someone they had recently seen on a poster down at the local cinema. Jimmy, hoping to avoid such theatrical fame, spent a few days being very still and quiet, and only darting his eyes about at people until he was quite certain that none of this glittering intrigue had rubbed off on him.

Seeing Jimmy’s reaction, Thomas was not surprised when Jimmy did not come to his room anymore. He knew his lover by now: fear made him retreat, the little rabbit, he thought affectionately. So when three nights passed with no nocturnal visits, he kept his demeanor calm and only subjected Jimmy to the occasional loving glance whenever he could discretely do so. Jimmy’s behavior was desperately neutral, seeming neither to accept nor reject, wanting only to avoid the threat of further danger or arrest. However, when a fourth night, and then a fifth passed by with no acknowledgement from Jimmy at all, Thomas began to suspect that he faced a rather charming conundrum: how to seduce Jimmy all over again, starting from the beginning.

Not from the beginning, he amended, while smoking a cigarette out back. Jimmy wasn’t denying his own impulses anymore. Not from the beginning, more from the middle. (He paused to smirk to himself about the thought of “seducing Jimmy from the middle.”) The first thing to do, Thomas decided, was to re-establish intimate contact: touching, kissing, caressing. The best way to do this was with little stolen moments during the day, moments that Jimmy would know, simply by the nature of their job, could not turn into full-fledged lovemaking. Jimmy just needed stolen moments to remind him of how much he loved having his Thomas touching him. Thomas blew up a column of smoke… yes. We will start with that, he thought.

After his smoke, Thomas began a shark-like cruise around the domain, making mental notes of jobs that would soon need doing, cleanings and rotations, and private nooks and crannies that were only a step away from said task. Eventually he decided that the more time Jimmy spent acting as part-time valet to Mr. Branson, the more likely Thomas was to engineer a moment or two alone in Branson’s bedroom while Branson was out attending his duties of the day.

Accordingly, Thomas stepped into Branson’s empty bedroom one day, picked up a small pair of pinking scissors, and snipped a button off of one of Branson’s coats. Then he put the button into his pocket and waited.

Carson, meanwhile, was aware. It’s not to say he was fully aware of everything, but the old butler was not a fool. He was aware that James had undergone a sea-change where Barrow was concerned. He was aware that when Thomas loomed over James, the younger man seemed to almost bow under him, like a tired traveler grateful for a moment of shade, or a horse content with its groom nearby. That such comparisons even entered Carson’s head made his stomach shift uncomfortably, and send up complaints to him for the disturbance.

He was also aware of the late-night card games, the rather conspiratorial glances the two men exchanged… and there had been times when Carson had an uneasy feeling that they shared some secret references that were… well… far too deep for him. This was ominous. Carson decided that, if nothing else, he should try to make some effort to communicate his concerns to Lord Grantham. It was not that he wanted to persecute Thomas, and certainly not James, but could a man of honor stand by and watch a young man drift toward disaster without a word? Surely not!

Carson chose a Sunday afternoon, shortly following church services (and no doubt influenced by them) when Lord Grantham was in his library, looking reflective. Through the window, Lord Grantham could see Lady Mary and the nurses taking little Georgie and Sybbie for a stroll together. It was a pretty picture, yet a tragic one. There go two grandchildren who would never know one of their parents, Robert thought. He stared out at them, musing on the cruelty of a God that would do such a thing. That he was framing it that way in his mind, he was not consciously aware, but it was probably a mood that left him far less receptive to Carson’s concerns than the butler could have realized when he approached Lord Grantham with his tea.

Because a good servant does not address his master first, Carson put down the tea and struck a forbidding pose. Robert, fully cognizant of such protocol, took a cup of tea and looked up. “Is there something you wish to discuss with me, Carson,” he asked, not prepared to hear anything terribly important.

Carson ahem-ed his appreciation for the opening. “There is, milord, but it’s a very delicate matter.”

It usually is, thought Robert, and held his tea-cup attentively.

Carson foundered for a bit, having expected Lord Grantham to perhaps draw the information out of him, and then finally began. “Does your Lordship remember an incident, somewhat over a year ago, between Barrow and James?” he asked, feeling as though he’d taken a rather bold plunge into the heart of the matter.

“You mean, when Barrow… upset James?” Robert replied, feeling a swell of amusement that he was once again to embark upon a careful voyage across the slippery surface of a deep topic (certainly no pun intended.)

“Exactly,” Carson replied, with a slight tip of his head to acknowledge the very tactful way his Lordship had phrased the distressing event. “James was very upset.”

“But I thought they’d made peace,” Robert mentioned hopefully.

Carson’s face darkened. “Indeed,” he said ominously.

Robert waited.

Carson looked at him meaningfully, but no response was forthcoming. The butler inhaled deeply and tried to think of a sensitive way to enlighten his lordship.

“James has become very peaceful indeed.” Carson said.

Robert stared at him blankly.

Carson sighed. “One might almost suspect that a recurrence of that upset would be met with a response almost too peaceful.” He said meaningfully.

The light finally dawned on Robert. “Ah!” He said, and smothered a smile. More buggery! Well I’ll be damned, he thought. There’s more of it at Downton than Eton. He reflected for a moment and then amended drily, no, there isn’t even more of it in Italy than at Eton. “Well, I say.” He said, and fell into contemplating whether it was Thomas or Jimmy who preferred… but his mind settled that rather quickly (and with surprising accuracy).

“Indeed.” Said Carson, and waited.

Lord Grantham stared down at his tea. Thomas and James, squirreling about in the linen closets, well-well, he thought. Then he looked out again at Lady Mary, and the nanny, and the children. It looked as though little Sybbie was sitting in the grass, holding tiny George. The child held the baby, who was not that much smaller than she was, and gazed up at her aunt.

There is so much pain in the world, Robert thought suddenly, and was chagrined to feel as though his vision had suddenly blurred. He swallowed. Carson was waiting for a response. He contemplated, finding that he simply had no inclination for any sort of witch hunt. His energy was low right now. There had been a great deal of sadness in his life in the last year. If two of his servants were embarking upon some sort of bizarre journey, he had no heart to concern himself with it at this time.

“I do hope whatever foolishness they engage in does not interfere with the performance of their duties.” Robert finally said dismissively, in a tone of unmistakable apathy.

Carson looked at him in dismay, but Lord Grantham turned back to gaze upon his semi-orphaned grandchildren, and after a moment, Carson came to a sort of dim understanding of his Lordship’s state of mind. He bowed assent, and withdrew quietly from the library. He had done his duty, he thought, but the unease still roiled in his gut, and he knew that he would probably feel called upon, internally, to pursue the matter on whatever alternate paths he could.

Thomas, meanwhile, was in a state of anxiety waiting for Branson to wear the coat with the missing button. This was necessary for the onset of his plan, and the blasted fellow wasn’t wearing the blasted coat. Thomas hoped he didn’t have to go cut the buttons off of all of them. Two days after his first incursion into Branson’s bedroom, he slipped in again one afternoon, determined to manipulate events however possible. He opened Bransons’s closet and observed that the jacket was closer to the door-edge of the closet than it had been previously.

Of course… Branson simply grabbed whichever jacket was closest. Thomas nearly smacked himself in the head with annoyance: if he’d cut a button off the nearest jacket, matters would be well underway by now. He moved the affected jacket to the front of the line, backed away, closed the door, and turned to see Carson entering the room.

“May I ask what you are doing in MISS-ter Branson’s sleeping quarters?” Carson spoke deliberately.

Thomas, who was rarely at loss, replied immediately, “Just looking for something to do, Mr. Carson. Seems like we’re all at loose ends these days.”

Carson considered (for this was true) and then drew a list from his breast pocket, “If you are in need of something to do, Mr. Barrow, I wonder if you would be so kind as to re-copy this schedule for me. My eyes are not what they once were, and the print is too small for me to read.”

Equably, Thomas took the list and inclined his head graciously. “Happy to, Mr. Carson,” he said with a cold smile, and then turned with his customary stiffness and headed down to the servants hall. And he was happy to do so, for that was usually a good place to encounter Jimmy.

Carson watched him go broodingly. He had seen Thomas disappear rather furtively into this bedroom and had come in rather dreading what he might find. But Thomas had been alone, muddling about amongst the clothes (actually very like a bored valet). Upon further investigation, Carson found James calmly attending her Ladyship’s tea with Lady Edith in the sitting room, and so felt a small, soothing bloom of relief inside. Perhaps the matter was not yet so serious.

Jimmy, for his part, brought the tea service back downstairs and dropped it off in the kitchen. He then turned and crossed over to the servants’ hall and hovered for a moment, finding Thomas alone at the long table, writing. Before he could escape, Thomas looked up and gave him a slight, warm smile.

“Jimmy, you can sew, can’t you?” He asked, and Jimmy, caught off guard by such an unexpected question, nodded, and stepped into the room.

“Thought so,” Thomas said calmly, not making any move to frighten his quarry. “Good. Now I’d best finish this,” and returned to his writing without another look or word at Jimmy, who hesitated as he always did when he was suddenly bereft of Thomas’s attention. Finally Jimmy drifted off rather confusedly, unaware of Thomas’s burning eyes following him as he left.

As soon as Jimmy was out of sight, Thomas folded up the papers and put them in his pocket. It was not his plan to finish right away.

That night, as the family gathered in the sitting room to await Carson’s call to dinner, Thomas brooded over how best to ensure that Branson would be the last to leave the room. He cast his mind about haplessly for some minutes, before finally noticing a small painting of a coat-of-arms in the far corner. He made his rounds, serving cocktails, and then worked his way over to it and glanced at it surreptitiously. It was a family coat with an unfamiliar name and crest, and Thomas was sure it would do as well as any.

As the time drew near, he stationed himself near it and stared fixedly at Tom Branson. Branson eventually noticed his regard, and Thomas began looking at the coat of arms, and then at Branson, and then back, as if perplexed.

Being only human, Tom Branson immediately wandered over and said, “What’s so interesting?”

“Begging yer pardon, sir, but is that yours?” Thomas asked, glancing over at the coat of arms. Branson turned to regard it as Carson came in to announce dinner, and as Thomas planned, the family drifted away, with Branson lingering behind a moment to look at the small painting.

“No, not ours. We’ve got black dragons,” Branson said amusedly, “For what it’s worth.”

“Ah.” Said Thomas, and followed Branson to the door, where he detained the other man for just a moment. “If you please, sir,”

Thomas said, and picked a few imaginary specks of lint off his shoulders, before giving him a quick brush with his hand. “There we go,” he said, and stepped back, assuming the correct distant, neutral gaze of an under-butler.

Bemused, Branson continued on to dinner, surmising that Thomas had no other way to express his gratitude for deeds gone by than to fuss over him a bit. He was not exactly inaccurate: Thomas did feel gratitude. Unfortunately, his way of expressing it was to consider one as a valued and trustworthy part and parcel of his future plans.

That night, in the servants’ hall, Jimmy was finally prevailed upon to play the piano again. Thomas made sure to be visible, and add his voice to the acclaim, and clap loudly with the others at the end of the first song. Then, as Jimmy began the second, Thomas slipped out the back for a cigarette. He smoked in the cold night air, and listened to the music. He waited for the second song to end, knowing that Jimmy would glance around and find him gone, and wonder. Thomas smoked and shivered out back until the music finally ended for the night. Then he waited to see if Jimmy would come in search of him.

He didn’t, but it didn’t plunge Thomas into despair. He had embarked upon a plan, and it would be good enough if he returned to the hall and Jimmy was still lingering there. Thomas ground out his last cigarette and deliberately counted to 10. Finally, he gave his coat a straightening tug, and turned back inside. In the servants’ hall, Jimmy was sipping a last cup of tea all alone. Success, thought Thomas with an inward thrill.

Thomas came in, gave Jimmy a loving glance, and then sat down in his customary place and pulled out the list that Carson had asked him to continue. Bending studiously over it, he calmly went to work while Jimmy sipped his tea.

Finally Jimmy broke the silence, “Didn’t feel like music tonight, did you?”

Thomas looked up, “Oh, not at all, Jimmy, it was wonderful. I could hear you out back.” He paused, and added thoughtfully, “It really livens the mood up. I wish the family could hear you.”

Then he turned back to his copying. He could feel Jimmy’s restlessness even though the younger man was still. Thomas continued working quietly for a few minutes, and then, without raising his head, he said, “Will I see you tonight?”

Jimmy inhaled slowly, and there was a silence. Finally Thomas looked up and gave him a warm, direct look, and waited. “I don’t think we should,” Jimmy whispered, glancing about (though all the others had long gone to bed.)

“Wha’ if I came to you?” Thomas asked calmly.

Jimmy looked panicked “Don’t. Don’t, you mustn’t.”

“Would you scream? Would you call for help? Have them take me away?” Thomas asked. “They would, you know. I’m a suspicious character now. That would be the end for me.” He stared intently at Jimmy, who looked as though he were being tortured.

“Don’t, don’t,” was all Jimmy could say, closing his eyes briefly. “Don’t, please.” Then he got up abruptly, left his tea behind and, murmuring a goodnight, left the room.

Thomas smiled and finished his copying. Then he put the list on Carson’s desk and came up the stairs, almost humming to himself. Jimmy would be on pins and needles all night long, expecting him to appear, Thomas knew. He had no intentions of appearing. He just wanted the other man thinking about it long into the night.

That night, while enjoying an unusually peaceful sleep, Thomas dreamt that Jimmy was in the room with him, leaning over him, pressing his face carefully to his, and whispering into his ear in almost pleading breaths that he did love him, did truly love him... It was an ecstatic dream. When he woke up in the morning, his door was slightly ajar, and Thomas lay there and stared at it for a moment, smiling. Come now, he thought. Do you really think I’m not going to get you back?

To Thomas’s satisfaction, Branson was wearing the afflicted coat at breakfast, utterly unaware of the missing button, and it was an easy matter to cross paths with the other man on his way across the entry way, to do a double take, and change direction to approach.

“What is it? Am I not fit yet to leave the house?” Branson asked with good humor, and Thomas gave a conscious smile and reached into his pocket.

“I found this button a bit back, and I’ve been holding onto it trying to work out whose it is. I think—“ Thomas gave a pointed look to the coat and displayed the button in his palm.

Branson glanced down, and sighed and shook his head. “I’d never a-noticed.” He held out his hand for the button, but Thomas pretended not to see and put it back in his pocket.

“I’ll have Jimmy fix it for you, let me just call him.”

“But I’m just on my way to—“ Branson said, but Thomas sailed away as if struck deaf, and Branson shook his head again, this time with a smile. These English… the only ones madder than the gentry were their servants. Jimmy appeared a moment later, looking like he’d been chased in.

“If you’ll let me, Mr. Branson,” he gestured rather uncertainly toward the stairs, and Branson sighed and allowed himself to be taken upstairs, divested of his coat, and another put on him.

“I’ll just sew this back on,” Jimmy assured him, and followed him out of the room.

“I could do it meself,” Branson offered, but Jimmy, looking as though he doubted that a former chauffeur could be trusted with such a delicate task, disappeared down the servants’ stairs with the jacket in hand.

Branson left the house quickly, afraid that Thomas would decide his shoes needed a polish too, and he’d never get to the garage before lunch.

Thomas passed by the servants’ hall several times that morning, watching the progress of the button through the window without Jimmy noticing him. He didn’t want to interrupt the sewing. He just wanted to know the exact second Jimmy was going to step into Branson’s bedroom. Further down the hall, Carson watched Thomas watching Jimmy. Then he heaved a heavy sigh… never had Thomas seemed so snake-like.

When Jimmy finally finished, Thomas was already in place. Jimmy walked into Branson’s room as Thomas was running a finger along the top of the mantle, as if checking after the maid’s dusting. From the under-butler’s blinking surprise, and then the tentative smile, no one looking could have guessed that Thomas was not utterly startled, charmingly taken aback when the door opened, and who should walk in but Jimmy! Jimmy, of all people! What a small world!

Thomas, having long learned that Jimmy was weaker on defense than offense, said immediately, “Wha’re you doing here?”

Jimmy held up the coat, “Uh, the button! You said—“

“Ah- so I did,” Thomas said, and went to the wardrobe to open the door for him. “Wait, now. Let me look at it.” And thus had the opportunity to put their heads very close together while perusing the button. At last it was verified as having been adequately sewn, and Thomas laid a casual hand on Jimmy’s shoulder as the younger man placed the coat on a hanger and put it away.

He kept that hand on its resting place when Jimmy closed the wardrobe and turned to him, already looking as though he knew he’d have to battle his way out of the room, however carefully.

Thomas went right for the throat, “Ye don’t come see me anymore,” he said softly, his blue eyes looking only kindness upon Jimmy. His hand came up to caress the face looking up at him. He noted with relief that Jimmy didn’t shy away from his touch, only darted an uneasy glance at the door, and then gazed back up at him.

“I just think we should stop,” Jimmy said inadequately, as Thomas’s fingers went up into the sensitive nook behind his ear and moved slowly about. Thomas brought his other hand up to run his fingers about the sides of Jimmy’s neck, and moved his face in close, so they could smell the scent of one another. For a long moment, they hovered together, faces almost touching, before Jimmy drew a long breath and stepped away as if he were coming out of a spell.

“It’s not safe,” Jimmy said.

“Give me your hand. Just for a moment,” Thomas insisted, and they held hands for a few quiet seconds. Then Thomas put his mouth very near Jimmy’s ear and whispered, “I’m coming to you tonight—no, don’t say No. I’m coming, and the only way to stop me is to scream the house down. I’m coming to you, or I’m going to prison.” He let go of Jimmy’s hand, and the blond gave him a pleading look, and then fled the room with a look of anguish on his face.

Carson was just coming up the stairs. From near the front door, he had seen Thomas go into the room, and a moment later, James, and the old butler had only paused for a moment before heading across the foyer. He was relieved to see Jimmy exiting so quickly, but the look on the lad’s face confirmed his fears.

“James,” he said commandingly, bringing Jimmy to a halt.

“Yes, Mr. Carson.” Jimmy looked trapped.

“Is everything alright, James?” Carson asked as tactfully as he could.

Jimmy avoided eye contact. “Yes Mr. Carson.”

Down the hall, Branson’s door opened, Thomas glided out, gave them both a look, and then disappeared like black smoke down the stairs at the far end.

“James,” Carson said quietly, “I know you are grateful to Mr. Barrow, and I am happy that you are able to work peacefully with him. But if there is something that… If I can… advise you, or help you, you must feel free to tell me.”

Jimmy finally looked up at Carson, and the butler saw with a sinking feeling that the look in the young man’s eyes had a strangely lost, yet settled cast, like a man who has accepted a certain doom.

“There’s nothing anyone can do for me now.” Jimmy said. Carson drew his breath in sharply. This was as close to an admission as any man could reasonably make.

“Come down to my office,” Carson finally managed, and the two went down. Once inside, with the door closed, Carson settled heavily behind his desk and waved Jimmy into a chair.

“James, when you first came to us, there was no indication that you… were…” Carson faltered, not wishing to hear any awkward, defensive declarations. He had already learned from the unapologetic Thomas that words like “twisted” and “foul” were not particularly helpful. And James was so unlike Thomas, whose cold-eyed smirks and deliberate ways would have been unnerving even if he’d been a married man with a passel of children. Jimmy didn’t seem like an agent of perversion. He seemed, thought Carson dismally, like the target.

Carson tried again. “Before you met Thomas, had you any—“

“No.” Jimmy said immediately, but his eyes stayed on the floor. There was a painfully long pause, before he continued, almost to himself. “It’s like falling into a river, and the current just takes you away.”

Carson mused for a moment. This was simply beyond his understanding. The only thing that even rendered him willing to try to understand was that he had known both of these young men long enough not to want to throw them to the wolves. And wolves were out there, no question at all. Carson thought of the Duke and had an inward shudder.

The problem must be situational, he finally decided.

“Do you want to escape this… current?” He asked.

Jimmy finally looked at him. “What? How?”

“I can write you an excellent reference, and send you to any available post with my highest recommendation.” Carson told him sincerely. “If you are free of Mr. Barrow, you may be free of this… influence as well.”

Jimmy’s eyes drifted away as he considered this. “Not see him anymore,” he whispered, “not see him ever again.” Then his face seemed to slowly crumple and he put his hand over his eyes. To Carson’s abject discomfort, he could see tears slipping down from behind the hand. The older man struggled for some supportive words, but suddenly Jimmy stood and let his tear-stained face be seen. “No. No, I don’t want to do that. Mr. Carson, you’ve known Thomas for a long time, and you don’t hate him, do you?”

“No, I—“ Carson stammered, and Jimmy said,

“Then don’t hate me,” and ran out of the room. Carson rose to his feet but the young man was gone. A moment later, Mrs. Hughes, a look of amazement on her face, stepped through the door, looking back at the disappearing footman.

“Now what?” She asked, with her customary bluntness.

Carson sat back down. “We need to talk,” he sighed.

Thomas retired early that night, having decided that it was time to sing down the walls of Jericho. He groomed himself carefully, turned on the lights in his room, knowing the glow could be seen under the door. Then he went into Jimmy’s darkened room, sat down in the chair in the corner, and waited.

In a short time, Jimmy came to his room and with quick, nervous movements, closed the door and dragged the dresser in front of it, barricading himself in without turning on the lamp. Thomas sat in the dark, unnoticed, with a smile on his face. I know him so well, he thought with a certain pride in his own abilities. Jimmy sank down on the edge of his bed and put his face in his hands. He sat for so long, Thomas grew concerned and finally decided to put an end to it.

“Well done,” he said quietly.

Jimmy flew into the air with a cry and stared into the corner until his eyes finally made out the form of the man sitting patiently in the dark.

“Oh God!” the younger man said, and after a moment, sank back to the bed, limp with shock. Thomas rose and came to sit with him, wrapping his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders.

“Sshh…” he whispered soothingly, stroking the blond hair and pulling Jimmy into his arms. Thomas held him tight for a moment, and then helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you more comfortable,” he said, and began to undress him. Shaken, Jimmy was unable to resist, having been out-maneuvered, and gradually fell into the passive mode he sometimes did when Thomas was being overwhelming.

Down in Mr. Carson’s office, Mrs. Hughes listened with weary amusement as Carson tiptoed gingerly through the description of his brief interview with James, and a painfully opaque indication of his fears for the boy. Finally, she put a stop to his limping narrative.

“You’re not going to agree with this,” she began, and Carson gave her a suffering look, but she eyebrowed him down and continued. “First of all, they’re both young. I’m not saying they’re boys, but they’re young enough still to be in the … the flush of things. It’s hard to stop young people who are determined to carry something through. And the… the cosmic urge, as I’ve heard it called, is a strong one. We could spend a lot of time looking into linen closets, trying to catch them at it.”

Carson cringed at this reminder that opening innocent doors could unsuspectingly lead him into a world of knowledge he dreaded.

“But whatever happens, it’s not going to lead to a young woman being ruined. There won’t be any fatherless children to worry about. As long as we can keep these two young fools out of the path of the police, naught’s going to come of it but hurt feelings and maybe some shame.”

Carson sighed. “So it isn’t … real…?”

Mrs. Hughes pulled a face. “I didn’t say that, I don’t know what makes something ‘real’ or not. I just know that some forces can’t be stopped. And it’s our duty to protect the virtue of our maids and young girls, but we don’t have the same responsibility to young men. It may be wrong to say it, but there it is.”

Carson gave her a long, moody look. “And what about their immortal souls, Mrs. Hughes? What about that?”

She gave a pragmatic shrug. “Neither you nor I can save a soul. It’s a bit above our station.”

There was a moment of silence. Mrs. Hughes added, “If we can let them… work it out alone, and not bring police or public infamy into it, I say hands off.”

She stood and made ready to go, and Carson gazed upon her with a look of defeat. She gave him a sympathetic smile. And that was the end of it.

Upstairs, Thomas had Jimmy nearly stripped. The younger man stood in only his underclothes, offering no resistance, but stared up at Thomas with reproachful eyes. Thomas stopped and gazed back.

“Take me shirt off me,” he suggested, and opened his arms invitingly. With unthinking obedience, Jimmy unbuttoned Thomas’s shirt and slipped it off him, following the directives until they were both undressed.

“Come,” Thomas whispered, and drew Jimmy down to sit on the bed, facing one another. “Here, I’ll tell you what,” Thomas offered. “You do something, and I’ll do it back. And I’ll only ever do what you do first.”

He looked into Jimmy’s eyes so lambently that the other man couldn’t resist bringing his hand up to touch the pale face, and run his fingers over that sharp cheekbone, and down his jaw in a gesture very like forgiveness, or a blessing.

Jimmy let his hand drop, and Thomas reached up and gave him the same caress in return.

Jimmy smiled a bit, and reached up to stroke Thomas’s neck, a full, strong column of a thing that Jimmy secretly was very drawn to. He watched with the familiar sense of power as Thomas closed his eyes, and let his head loll back to give Jimmy’s hand free reign over his throat, and collarbones, and shoulders. Whenever Thomas gave even the illusion of being helpless under Jimmy’s hands, the younger man was unable to resist the temptation to tease. In a very short time, they were close, sliding their hands over one another’s arms, and pressing their chests tight together, and finally peeling off the last of their clothing. It was Jimmy who pressed their hips together, looking down to see that their most private parts were pressed tight against one another, and moving his legs out of the way so that they could rub against each other more firmly. But it was Thomas who reached down between them, took both erections in his hands and squeezed them together tightly. Jimmy clung to the other man’s arms, and put his head against Thomas’s shoulder, and watched the hands work them both over, bringing them closer and closer to that frenzied moment when the mind loses all control of the body, and hips mash against lover’s hips without restraint or shame.

When the moisture came out of them, Thomas slid his hands into it and kept stroking, slicker and faster, as Jimmy held on for dear life, chewing his lip to keep silent, squeezing his eyes shut, digging his fingers into the arms that brought him this pleasure. He thrust up into the hands that gripped him over and over, alive with pleasure, until the madness peaked, almost painfully, and finally, slowly passed. They both slid down onto the bed. Jimmy fell back, his legs spread wide, and Thomas fell forward on top of him, burying his face in Jimmy’s neck. They lay there a long while, clinging and panting, and still occasionally pushing their hips together in moments of residual erotica, enjoying the feel of their most sensitive parts kissing against one another.

When Jimmy finally came back to himself, he was on his back, gazing up at his window, where he could see the waning moon. Thomas was fully on top of him, their cocks squeezed pleasurably between them in a warm, damp cocoon. Jimmy wrapped his arms around Thomas, signifying that he had no further thought of denying their bond, at least, not tonight. He wrapped his legs around the other man as well, and after a moment, Thomas lifted his head to gaze down with the trace of a satisfied grin on his dark lips.

Jimmy stared at that face for a moment, that odd, intensely cold and beautifully sculpted face. “You’re my best friend,” he said suddenly, without having planned it at all. It came into his head and popped out of his mouth simultaneously. The smile left Thomas’s face and he looked as if something from his distant past had stepped forward to stake an undeniable claim. Jimmy continued, uncertainly. “Am I your best friend?” He asked, his chest rising and falling rather quickly, as if this answer mattered. Thomas’s eyes grew a bit moist. He blinked it down, and whispered, “Yes, Jimmy. You are. You’re my best friend, my only friend. My love. You’re my love.”

They kissed lingeringly, and then hugged desperately tight. After a minute, Thomas looked up at Jimmy again to see him staring once more at the window, at the moon.

“I’m so awake,” Jimmy breathed. “I feel like I’ve never been so awake.”

And it was only a little while before they felt compelled to begin again, playing another sort of game. I’ll do something, and you do it back. No, turn this way and we can do it at the same time. You do what I do. You do whatever I do, and I’ll do it back. I’ll do it till you can’t stand it, till we both can’t stand it. And they played this game long into the night.

In the morning, Thomas had the satisfaction of seeing that Jimmy was back under his control. Back in his arms, whenever they opened, back under his hands, docile and tame, and a little amused. They dressed each other with great tenderness, and then went down.

Jimmy spent most of breakfast carefully regarding Mr. Carson. Never would the younger man have admitted it, but having some sort of tacit sign of tolerance from the older man meant something to him. Jimmy was a creature of reactions. He had spent his life subtly responding to the signals of others; it was how he survived. Thomas saw an opening and made boldly for it. But Jimmy was different. Jimmy felt a vibration and regulated his own to match it. It may have been this quality that drew Thomas to him in the first place, this unspoken knowledge that here was a string that could be taught to respond to the fingers. But it meant that, unlike Thomas, Jimmy needed a certain ambience of acceptance in order to truly unfold himself. Thomas was a thorn that could grow among rocks, but Jimmy was the sort of seed that could lay dormant for years in unwelcoming climates, only taking root when conditions were gentle.

In Carson’s avoided glances, and in the lack of pointed remarks, Jimmy gained a certain delicate sense of balance, a sense that if one did not inhale too deeply, or exhale too loudly, all could glide quietly forward.

Next he turned his attention to Mrs. Hughes. She, too, manifested a brisk “I can’t see you, so you needn’t worry” air that was… not reassuring, exactly, but not threatening either. Jimmy settled into a state rather like someone who is floating in tepid water, and has learned that if you do not move, you feel no friction.

When Jimmy finally turned his attention to Thomas, finishing his toast in those last moments at the breakfast table, he was a little surprised by the warm feeling that filled his lower gut. My best friend, he thought to himself, a little embarrassed by such a juvenile phrase. But it was true. Only with a best friend could one explore such shocking territory. Only a best friend could put their hand on you in such a way that you feel you’ve nothing to fear, and you can do much the same back, and the two of you have nothing to do with anyone else, or any other world than the one you create and live in together.

Jimmy had almost the strange sense that last night, as he and Thomas had played with one another’s bodies, and teased each other’s flesh and nerves, an enchanted forest had grown up in that bedroom. Black trees with twisted limbs surrounded the bed, and the walls had fallen away. Jimmy was suddenly aware that the others were standing, and pushing back their chairs. Breakfast was over. Thomas was giving him a confidential, smiling, possessive look, and the bells were ringing, and it was time to start the day.


End file.
